Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds
by LovelyPriestess
Summary: For four teeangers, life consisted of drugs, alcohol, parties, and typical anguish, all imperfect. This is a renewed version of Daughters of the Moon.
1. An Inbred Army Of Fashion Sluts

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Daughters of the Moon—(rated for language and minor "adult" content, I suppose.)_

**I. An Inbred Army Of Fashion Sluts**

_Through the murky forest, you peered closely, seeing the thinning trees scattered unevenly amongst the rotting earth, so close to one another, that the jagged branches tangled together, a mess of wooden limbs. You want to flee, to evade of the rotting stench that is clasping hold of you, yet the trees' wicked shadows dance across your meager body, casting a treacherous shadow over the land—you can not escape the darkness. No one can, not in the forest of your mind, the forest that represents the sorrowful realm lingering in your head. It's all chaotic, a kingdom of despair. _

_In the distance, from somewhere in reality, you strain to hear the sand inside the hourglass, creating a pile at the bottom as time catches up to the rotten land of your mind—the forest of anguish and misery. You hope to hear the cracking of the glass, the cobweb patterns, because you wish so desperately that the hourglass will shatter into small fragments. _

_Oh, how much you wished to destroy time. The hourglass breaking is the destruction of time. When time halts, ceasing to exist, then the rotten forest you inhabit will forever fall, and that is what you hope for. _

_The forest, the land, is your mind, your body, your soul—_

The crumpled, lined-paper was promptly yanked out of my loosened grasp. Cocking a single eyebrow, I shifted to the side, eyes questioning and displeased once seeing Catty, the paper in her grasp: brown orbs skimming across the words without a care. I tapped my fingers against the tabletop, impatient, till she finally released the paper. Her expression displayed bemusement.

"I happen to thrive off time," Catty teased, perching down on the chair adjacent mine, "no need to diss it."

My lips curled into a wry smile as I stuffed the paper into my handbag. "No need to follow me to the café."

**The Awakening**, a medium-sized coffee shop: a sanctuary for those, _meaning teenagers_, wishing to find the newest hangout—why not a coffee house situated near the slums of Hollywood, which was a rough description, seeing as the _entire_ land of Hollywood was the definition of scum and slum. Still, The Awakening remained a quiet place for someone evading the hassles of a crowded city. The aroma of finely brewed-coffee, fresh paint, and flowery incense lingered, a calming affect to an already serene area.

For several prolonged moments, I stared longingly at the small stage near the corner of the room: a raised deck for bands to play during the nights and for poets to bear out their souls through simple, mismatched words and phrases. Would it be worth to effort? I wanted so desperately to share my songs—my beautifully drawn voice—to those who I know and don't know. I wanted to accomplish something.

But honestly, what the _hell _was poetry?

"_Michael Saratoga's_ been searching for you."

I flinched, not pleased by how Catty pronounced his name, so crisply and full of awe.

"I know, right?" Catty easily interpreted my expression. "I don't know why all the girls squeal at the mere _sound _of his name. He's nothing special—only useful for eye candy, I admit. His personality is freaking dull, nothing appealing to _my_ taste—"

"Which is everything and anything that moves and has a dick," I finished, giggling madly.

My brunette friend frowned, yet couldn't conceal the amusement brightening in her chocolate-colored eyes. Dark brown tresses framed a rounded face with gaunt cheeks and flat eyebrows. In retrospect, Catty was always the plain one, never once possessing any feature that could qualify as beauty—she was pretty, of course, but not beautiful or stunning or attractive, if that made sense. Her thin figure hinted to an abuse of drugs and such: Catty was into anything that could send her into another world where reality meant nothing, where her present problems no longer existed.

"I love only you," I muttered, grinning ear-to-ear.

"And I, you," Catty admitted teasingly, bowing her head properly, as if that was a sign of her promise that the words were true and etched into stone. Friends since kindergarten, Catty and I were an odd pair, linked together solely by the problems progressing in each other's lives.

Kendra, once a tender woman, was Catty's adoptive mother, yet couldn't ever seem to fit into a good role as a responsible parent: Catty partied till the dawn rose, her grades slipped to _failure_, and her attitude and appearance resembled that of a druggie—nevertheless, through all these years, Kendra remained unfazed and uncaring: only their for the kind words and good shelter.

_Then Thomas came_, I bitingly thought, remembering the man that had entered Catty's life several years ago. Thomas was now Kendra's boyfriend—a scrawny, doe-eyed man with a shaved head and bony limbs: veins always protruding. The bruises smeared across Catty's body, hidden behind layers of clothing, finished this story.

"Party at Morgan's tonight," Catty announced, supplying a new conversation.

"I don't like her… She never shuts her trap."

She shrugged. "Not like you'll see her—loads of girls and boys are bound to be there, like always." A devious smile crossed her expression. "I need to buy some "stuff" from her, remember?" She wiggled her eyebrows, up and down, suggestively and playfully.

I sighed, fully knowing most of the druggies in the school: Catty, of course, and also Morgan (who, shockingly, maintained a gorgeous body through and through: not even having dark circles under her eyes or reddish coloring around them). I briefly recalled a boy named "Collin", the brother of the newest addition to La Brea High, Serena Killingsworth. He was a senior, and she, a sophomore, just like me and Catty—I remember him whispering to a drug dealer, asking for something I couldn't make out.

It would astonish parents, what with all the druggies and drug dealers littering the campus.

Times were changing.

"You have to go," Catty pouted: crossing her arms and puckering her lips. I cocked my head, unable to contain the butterflies that erupted in my stomach at the adorable expression on her face. How could I deny her anything, that manipulative bitch? And that's the answer, folks: I couldn't, never…

"I'll go."

She clapped her hands together, a short squeal tearing from her throat, prompting several heads to snap in our direction. Yes, Catty was always the enthusiastic one, making me wonder what her morbid mood appeared as (something I've never once witnessed in the years we've been together).

"But if anything goes wrong," I warned, "I'm going invisible and hightailing it out of there."

She waved her hand dismissively, still the unconcerned one.

I sighed.

OOO

Through the crowded halls of La Brea High, I could clearly see a certain person strolling my way, anxiously, and with a sharp turn, I eluded him: Michael Saratoga. Most would consider me simply being shy. I could _scoff _at the idea. Of course, I was sometimes a timid girl, but such a trait wasn't why I refused to blatantly ignore Michael. Perhaps it was his attitude, resembling that of a golden retriever, a _dog_—you know, trailing your path, overly loyal…

Not so appealing, I say.

"Hey, Vanessa," a voice purred in my ear. Already knowing the hoarse voice, I whipped around, and sure enough, Morgan remained behind me, hip cocked and arms folded across her chest. Like every day, she was head-to-toe in silvery, expensive jewelry and the "in" fashion of this week. Her blue eyes were tinged with a hint of fatigue, for they were heavy-lidded—as if keeping them open seemed a terribly exhausting task.

Before I could reply, Morgan launched herself into her normal running talk, words barely decipherable as they meshed together:

"You know I'm having a party, right? You're going, I know that much, but I was wondering if I could, you know, rummage through your mom's closet before Saturday night comes—to pick out some fresh new clothes. You know how I like to set new trends, even though you're the one usually doing it." She sighed dreamily at the statement. "I mean, when's a good time—?"

"Tomorrow after school," I offered.

She smiled genuinely. "Good. All good—three days before the party." Swiveling around on her heel, she strutted off, heels clicking annoyingly on the tile of the hallway. Tomorrow, the safest time—Eleanor, my mother, would still be at her fashion industry, a massive building always crowded with men and women. The women were _always _decked out with stylish, knee-high boots, unnecessarily large leather handbags, and the latest in fashion clothing, whether it be copies from the sixties to the eighties or that damn punk attire that stupid teens have deluded themselves into wearing day after day, continuously thinking that it was "unique" and showed their "individuality".

Say that to the other thousands of teenagers imitating your "unique" look. Ha, don't make me laugh (I suppose, if you haven't noticed, I have a bitter outlook on fashion).

But yes, Wednesdays were safe times. Eleanor's daily routine consisted of storming into the house, the perfect image of a grizzly bear on fire, and downing as many shots of alcohol and wine before shoving out as many spiteful insults as possible at me. While said insults were being carelessly tossed around, I'd be glancing at the clock on the wall, waiting for 7:00 PM, the time she usually passed out: either collapsing on her bed or on the ground, I could never predict. She'd wake up around 3:00 in the morning, get everything needed to be done, and fall back asleep—leaving for work at 8:00.

I have such a magnificent mother…

"What a freak," someone, a reedy voice, whispered harshly. I slowly shifted where three girls huddled together, their whispering unnecessary—after all, their target was down the hall, and it'd be hard to hear such words, even in a normal tone, through all the chattering from the other students. Still, I gazed pitifully at the victim, Serena Killingsworth. I, however, continued to observe her, clearly understanding how the term "freak" fit her description.

Serena dialed the combination of her lock, startlingly bright emerald eyes blank (even I could see it, from so far away). She sported a clingy snakeskin skirt, her legs fitted with torn fishnets; a loose-fitting black, long-sleeved shirt covering her torso, sleeves slumping off her shoulder to reveal glossy tan skin—hidden behind another layer of fishnets. Her fashion-attire disturbed me, it being far worse than the other "Gothic" shit going around. I admired her hair, though: long, auburn curls that tumbled to her back, bangs covering her eyebrows.

"Why does she dress that way?" anther questioned, a tinge of disgust in her tone.

"Why do you feel the need to dictate what she wears?" I snapped, comment loud enough. They whipped their heads around to glare venomously, and in seconds, their eyebrows pinched together in nervousness once seeing it was the "oh-so-popular-and-worshiped-Vanessa Cleveland". The girl, her name _Corrine_, I think, clutched her friends' hands and marched away, making a short "humph".

I rolled my eyes and continued down the opposite end, passing by Serena. For a brief second, we caught each other's eyes, her sending me a knowing look that, oddly, brought upon a shiver running down my arms. Hands in my duffle coat's pockets, the wool warm, I sauntered to first period in slow strides—first period being English Honors: an easy A.

"Vanessa—!"

"_No,_" I snarled, shifting past Michael. I admit… he was—_is_—stunning: disheveled, glossy black tresses, dimples, and a perfect smile, perfect height, perfect body. Bottom line, _perfect_—annoyingly so. How could anyone stand that? It may have been years with Catty that spiked my love for the strange and imperfect, but even Michael was pushing it: I mean, going _above_ perfection? Was there such a thing?

I cringed, revolted, at the thought.

"There's no such thing as perfect," people often tell you.

Bullshit:

Tell that to Michael Saratoga.

OOO

"You know, I'm pretty sure druggies are the ones able to actually enjoy _Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas_," I explained, already not comprehending the psychotic movie being played before the wide screen television—one of the few expensive items in this shabby home belonging to Catty. Thomas was working at his shitty ass job, and probably won't be back until late. After all, what's a day for a lowlife bastard when no beer is involved in the end?

Catty leaned against the plush, beaten couch, giggling manically. "I"—_gasp_—"have no idea"—_snort_—"what the hell you mean. It's just fucking insane, I can't even believe it!" I smirked at her. She was always the best company, never throwing her drama at you, unlike all the other "friends" she had, who always involved their problems with my life—whining and bitching constantly.

Uh… horrible.

In order to keep my sanity, I opted to examining the living room—the first room you see the moment you enter the one-story house. The kitchen was also attached: linoleum floor, patches of it peeling, and bright orange walls. Each room smelt of spoiled milk and cat vomit, despite no pet ever being in this house before. Catty's tiny bedroom consisted of a single bed, a broken down, pinewood dresser, and a canvas in the corner: a half-finished painting in the process. Catty, always high, painted the oddest shit—things that no one would be able to imagine; not even children.

"I have an outfit picked out," she suddenly exclaimed. Leaping off the couch, she skipped to her bedroom, me trailing closely behind, the movie abandoned. The small, narrow hallway had photos in mismatched frames, either plastic or finely carved, pinned against the walls: Catty and Kendra, when times were blissful and neither were constantly consumed by daily beatings. For a moment, I paused, admiring the happy smile on Kendra's face.

A smile that no longer existed.

I gasped when I entered the bedroom. How had she managed to change so quickly? Indeed, the outfit she posed for in front of me was the normal clothes she wore for everything: school (which she rarely attended) and parties. It was sluttish, which I've become accustomed to with her. She grinned at me while smoothing her hand up her thigh, sticking out her leg: wearing a leather micro miniskirt and a tight corset that pushed up her cleavage.

The straps of the garter belt under the skirt were visible—her legs sheathed with black stockings—, and on her feet: (more leather) black, knee-high kinky boots. It astonished me that _any _woman could strut about in public and maintain her dignity at the same time—or man, if that man enjoyed wearing high-heels. I mean, with the crazy world we live in today, everything seemed possible.

For Christ's sake, I had the ability to become a transparent phantom, floating through the air!

"Like it?"

"Always the tramp, I see," I teased.

She eyed me, smirking mischievously. "You know I'm a virgin."

"Not for long."

"I have standards," Catty explained, peeling off the boots and stretching out her legs. I craned my neck, unable to gaze at her—so tantalizing, despite her being a "Plain Jane". She was enthralling through her personality, smile, and dark eyes. How could I resist something for so long? For twelve years, in fact—twelve years, I've opposed the greatest temptation of all, always suppressing my own desires.

Lost, I see?

Did I forget to mention.

Oh, my…

I'm in love with my best friend.

You can wish my luck with that. Or, if you're completely disgusted with these desires rampaging in my body, you can damn me to the deepest depths of hell where I belong—after all, heaven doesn't allow "freaks", am I right? I do recall the hyena being rejected from Noah's Ark for being a freak: after all, who would want something different? No one. I, however, love strange.

My best friend _is _strange.

… Understand?

Spectacular.

OOO

**AN: **Yep, a different version. Characters involved—and probably all changed: Vanessa, Catty, Serena, Jimena, Stanton, Zahi, Morgan, Collin, Chris, Kyle, Tymmie, Cassandra, Karyl, Maggie, Michael, Yvonne; other _smaller_ roles, too. Have fun. Some pairing changed and love triangles (and pentagons!) added.


	2. The Alluring Nature Of Pan

**II. The Alluring Nature Of Pan **

"You're high, aren't you?" I muttered exasperatedly, eyes fluttering briefly in exhaust.

The observation was sure, and I couldn't fathom how anyone could go about their day, through and through, in such a withered state of mind and body… reason. Not even the secure comfort of the warm kitchen was capable of controlling the bitterness lacing through my chilled blood. Slumped against the counter, Collin, my brother, rummaged through the silverware cabinet, once blue orbs glazed over with a lifeless cloud.

"I'm just hyper," he responded, the same slow drawl of his voice not shocking me. "I mean, you know how I…" He paused, seemingly searching for the precise word already lost in the jumble of thoughts. "I get hyper just from anything—anything I can _swallow_." For further proof, he rubbed his stomach in a circular motion: having previously eaten two large bags of Doritos.

I smirked deviously. "Oh, I'm sure you've swallowed _many_ things."

His lips twitched as he resisted the urge to snort out laughter. "I'm totally fine, dude, so quit… um…"

Ridiculous.

"_Worrying?_" I raised my eyebrows, supplying a word.

He nodded once, grasped a spoon in his hand, and ambled out of the kitchen, shoulders slouched; blonde tresses disheveled and hanging all around his face, somewhat curly. I couldn't believe how much he resembled the stereotypical version of a surfer: bleached blonde hair with a tinge of brown flakes (also rather long tendrils of hair); slow, unprogressive speech; a vocabulary consisting of words such as "dude", "totally", and "awesome".

"Serena, can you get me some more food?"

He just _loves_ his munchies.

Collin's loud, pathetic voice rang all the way from his bedroom on the second-floor. I scoffed, not in the mood to play maid, as I usually did for the two men in the household who couldn't even wipe their own asses without needing an aid—my father and Collin, of course. I suppose the real blame should be placed on my mother for abandoning us and causing dad and Collin to spiral into complete messes, wilting away as the days flew by.

Richard, my father, spent most hours in his office, sulking over his whorish wife who left for some artist or something—some guy from France, I mean, and I couldn't blame her for falling for his charm. The slut. Then again, dad wasn't exactly the most handsome man you've ever laid eyes on, even I could tell. Oh, and then there's Collin's situation through this who tangle of soap opera-ish drama.

Collin, like many curious teenagers driven solely by pure anguish and "peer pressure" (another term for teenage manipulation and stupidity), became enamored with the world of drugs and beer—sometimes manage to smuggle alcohol into the campus of their old school. He made a load of money selling weed; money our father thought was received from "lawn mowing".

_Well_, if you look at it _closely_…

"How was school?" a low voice drawled. I shifted around from my spot on the chair, already knowing the person to be my father: hair slicked back, eyes aging and empty. He paused by the archway, smiling kindly at me, before vanishing again, returning to the loneliness of his office, not caring for an answer. Already, his tie had been loosened; wrinkles forming on his black suit. Just an image of disaster, I'd say.

School, hm?

The students there constantly stared at me with disdain, their rejection evident, and although I'd grown accustom to the idea that high school would suck your soul right from your body and tear it to shreds, I couldn't stop my self-esteem from plummeting. Collin was already making great strides into friendship. You know what they say: "Drugs make the world go 'round."

Or is that what _Collin _says (well, other than "no fear")?

Anyway, I've only met a few interesting people: Morgan Page, a rather odd girl without a stop button on her mouth. I applauded her bold greeting and genuine smile, especially because she seemed to fit the role of "bitchy Miss Popular" (she was the complete opposite: on the bitchy part, at least). Even her thoughts mirrored her enthusiasm and tender attitude, although hearing her lustful thoughts over my brother wasn't something needed to hear.

I worked up the nerve to speak to other students as well, usually earning many different responses:

"Go bother someone else with your pretty little smile, okay _Goth_?" In my _own_ response from Jimena Castillo's _kind _words, I wisely sauntered the other way, leaving the gang-banger to her private smoking time in the girl's restroom. Honestly, I actually attempted to greet her because of her thoughts, riddled with unexpected wisdom and intelligence: one of the few in this slum of a school.

"Oh, my gosh! I just _have _to tell you everything: the gossip, the scandal—"

Okay, did this crazed-girl just use the word _scandal_? Isn't this _high school_?

Well, there weren't _many_ replies. Most people gave me this weird "why the hell are you speaking to _me_?" look. Quite frankly, I had expected a much kinder greeting from the population of Hollywood. In Long Beach, everyone was nice, all smiles, all Paris Hilton-tanned bodies (not the Oompa Loompa-orange version either). Perhaps all the ear-shattering music from the various clubs caused an unnecessary amount of hostility. Maybe evil spirits hidden within the musicians—especially from Planet Bang—were controlling the La Brea High student body through guitars and drums?

Hey, I have rights to opinions, even if they're just a load of crackpot.

"You going to the party on Saturday?"

Collin leaned against the doorframe, pupils dilated (I noted how he seemed to rub his hands all along his chest: _ew_). I nodded, knowing of Morgan Page's party. Although the invitation wasn't appealing, I accepted, primarily in order to gain more friends and because it seemed difficult to deny something from someone so heavenly—in kindness, I mean! Not many seemed to like Morgan: I found the majority of reasons were envy (girls, at least), everyone's thoughts sourly devoted to despising the girl that possessed everything they wanted: wealth, looks, personality.

Morgan was _too _pretty, _too _gleeful, _too _rich.

Everyone's a critic.

OOO

The chilled breeze whistled by, a feathery feel that ruffled the hem of my pea coat; hands buried in the deep pockets. The street wasn't overly crowded—mainly for being away from the popular streets such as Hollywood Boulevard. Indeed, it was a quiet, leveled street littered with small, somewhat useless buildings and shops: Mr. Lothario's Magic Shop? Now _that's_ a pedophile or drug-dealer in disguise.

My scarf fluttered about, momentarily blinding me. Agitatedly, I swiped at it, promptly ramming shoulders with someone. "Sorry," I muttered, continuing on, however, halting, body tense. An odd sensation nestled in my brain, as though something sharp was poking at it. Reduced to a headache, I turned around, eyes wary… slowly widening in astonishment.

A teenage boy, probably around seventeen, stood several feet away, now leaning against a bench. Once meeting my eyes, he swiveled around and trudged off, visibly rigid; not before I caught the darkness of his eyes. It was astounding—his handsomeness, I mean: messy black tresses, tanned flesh, dark attire. All of it screamed _emo_, a term I once loathed but could easily connect with him.

_Had he been in my mind…?_

No… stupid idea.

Right?

Uh, I need an Advil.

"Hello, darling," someone greeted silkily, a husky voice that stunned me. Eyes traveling upward, I was greeted with the peculiar sight of a boy and girl (two others boys and another girl lingering behind, piercing eyes trained on me). Cringing, I continued onward, especially from the first two I saw: stunning blondes, the boy—blonde hair darkening to brown under the shade of the building—just as handsome as the dark-haired boy just seconds ago.

"Why are you running, _Goddess_," the one who had first spoken—the blonde girl possessing the voluptuous figure—questioned mockingly. _Goddess?_ Did that hold any intelligent meaning or were they just _high_ as a kite. The girl smirked, turning briefly to gaze at the blonde boy, as if exchanging some hidden information through messages encrypted in their eyes, both startling blue.

"You don't know, do you?"

I halted, staring quizzically at her.

"She's oblivious to her identity, Stanton," the girl snorted, "how about we inform her?"

I don't like how she said _inform_—as if it wasn't going to be in a _kind _manner.

_Stanton_ spoke up, voice… drained; emotionless; blank. His eyes were heavily-lidded, lips strewn into a tight line—no cunning smirk, crooked smile, or taunting words: certainly not what the other four were like. "That's not our job, Yvonne."

"Like she would believe us," a maroon-haired girl scoffed, glaring venomously at Yvonne, her equally blue eyes glassy with malice. Stanton remained unfazed. Yvonne scowled; her back turning to me as to hiss at the maroon-haired girl. The two other boys watched on excitedly, as if expecting a cat fight to erupt. It seemed that way. Anyway, at least all focus was away from me.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I ambled hurriedly away, ignoring the stare of Stanton; his eyes continuing to be that same cloud of detached azure. Once turning the corner, I found it a relief that none of them followed my trail. I imagined the maroon-haired girl pummeling Yvonne, fists flying and strands of hair shredded and scattered across the ground.

What a sight that would have been.

But the boy from earlier lingered in my head, especially his glossy black strands of hair (Yeah, I had a love of hair). It seemed insane, absurd, yet possible that he had been fishing around in my mind using telepathy. If I could acquire such a power, than who's to say others couldn't, too? From the young age of five I remember slipping in and out of minds, snooping through thoughts and memories (accidentally hitting a certain memory in my father's mind consisting of a bed… sheets…slut-mother… them playing a "game").

I think we all know how that ends.

Telepathy is freaky.

OOO

"There's a transfer student," the crazy girl pressed, leaning against her desk to gaze at me with dramatically widened eyes. I plastered a faux smile on my face, a mockery of optimism, before turning back to stare at the chalkboard. How poor was this school? "He's like, totally from France. How fucking sweet is that, right? I had him in my first period class, too!"—_unnecessary squeal_—"I can't wait for him to come, because he's in this class, too, I asked him!" Her eyes traveled to the door, a thin tinge of disappointment coating the hazel-coloring. "He's probably late—"

At that precise moment, the door whizzed open. All bustle and chatter hushed. The oblivious teacher, who had been scrawling her pen across some paper, not bothering to begin class, snapped her head up, fierceness evident in her grey eyes. This coldness vanished under a thick layer of shock at the newcomer. Pushing her reading glass up, for they had slid down her tiny nose, she leapt from her spot on the chair and hurried over to him.

I, however, was too busy trying not to lose conscious. The boy situated in front of the class was—of course—the dark-haired one. He sported the same black clothing: button-up coat, slim black jeans, and sleek black shoes. A thin dark coating covering his jaw, hinting to the makings of a beard, and his hair remained the same disheveled mess as before.

"There he is," the girl—I think her name was Melanie—squeaked, clasping her hands together. "His name is Zahi Girard."

I wouldn't be surprised if she began stalking him.

"There's only one empty seat," Melanie yelled to the teacher, who was attempting to find a proper seat for him. I looked away, cheeks burning, when his gaze zeroed in one me; his perfect lips carving into a half-smile. "Come on over here!"

Zahi, following the teacher's pointed finger, sauntered down the isle, all eyes trained solely on him. I blushed crimson when he sat down, books scattering across the table. He sat diagonal of me, but behind. All in all, I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back. Would I have to suffer under this for the rest of the school year? Melanie didn't seem to mind (why would she?), for she whipped around and instantly began asking random questions.

His father was French, yet his mother was Arabian—an odd pair, according to his grandparents, who scorned his mother for such a bold choice of love. I breathed evenly, not comprehending the flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Zahi's accent remained melodious the entire time. Others, mostly girls, strained to hear it, also; eyes lost in daydreams of marrying him. French: grace and charm, artistic ability, lukewarm and dark eyes.

What a treat!

"You moved here from France?" Melanie pestered, asking the same question again.

He smirked at her.

"Yes."

I observed the various silvery rings on his slender fingers—one peculiar, with the small shape of a reddish-orange bird, tips of its spread wings completely sheathed in black. Something deep within me, an extra sense, rumbled to life. The superficial fear slithered through me, stance and mind alert. Zahi noticed me staring, and the smirk widened into something akin to mischief.

"It's a ring given to me by a _friend_."

The lie was evident, yet brought another heap of excitement to tumble down on Melanie. She exclaimed, "Wow, cool ring!" Without warning, she gripped his hand and thrust it to her, examining it from every angle. The once patience in his eyes exploded; slowly easing his hand away from her. I rolled my eyes and continued to stare at the chalkboard.

_Come on teacher, start the lesson._

"I can't believe you came from _France._"

'_Shocker,' _I thought bitingly.

Zahi sent me an amused, mysterious smile. Okay, something was definitely strange about this unbelievably hot guy. Cringing away from his eyes, I continued staring forward, attempting to ignore him.

"Do you, like, play the guitar or something?"

"The piano."

"Oh…" The disappointment rang in her voice. She was probably hoping for something such as the drums or the guitar—or perhaps for him to belong to some band, as Michael Saratoga did, and sing vocals with a "haunting voice" (the description given to me about Michael's singing talents). I, personally, played the cello, fitting perfectly with my stereotype.

Because, you know, all freaky girls covered in make-up, black clothing, fishnets, band patches and such must _have _to play some hauntingly beautiful instrument like the cello or the violin. I tried the violin… I sucked, oddly, despite the similarities. How weird is that?

"Do you play any instrument…?" Zahi's question was obviously directed toward me.

"The cello."

_Don't look at him, don't look at him…_

"Aw, it suits you," Zahi continued. "It's a beautiful sound."

Several girls, including Melanie, scoffed.

"Thank… you?"

I continued staring forward—always forward.

"Well, I… _played_… the… piano, too?" Melanie cut in.

"Really?" His tone was a mockery of curious surprise.

I could hear the smile in Melanie's voice. "Yeah!"

Idiot.


	3. Does This Dress Make Me Look Gay?

**III. Does This Dress Make Me Look Gay? **

The tip of the paintbrush slashed and brushed across the white, either a violent jerk or a soft stroke. I couldn't tell; not through the fuzzy images clouding my once perfect sight. Jesus Christ… Did a purple elephant just skip by, singing the tones to all those Disney movies—movies I couldn't decipher through the thick fog? Ignore the elephant. Ignore the dots on the canvas that were now growing sharp teeth and snarling at me.

Hours later, my eyes fluttered open, a strange surge of emptiness and vacancy engulfing me. With a low groan, I limped to my feet, ignoring the ache in my back (I mean, I had fallen asleep—or passed out, I suppose—against the _wall_). My eyes briefly scanned over the canvas: the painting of… something. Uh, a walrus dancing on top of Mount Everest, I think? No, no! It's Jesus smoking pot with Santa Claus!

"What the hell?" I muttered, not even understanding where such ideas were coming from. For several seconds, I tapped my head, trying to jar my brain into working properly again (or, as _properly_ and _efficiently _as it could, which wasn't much). The rich smell of bacon slithered into my room. With a start, I realized that the clock flashed 11:12. Christ, missed school again.

Kendra doesn't care. She never does.

"Wait," I gasped, recalling the date: Friday. Thomas was either in bed, completely reduced to a heavy sleep, or already stuffing his mouth with Kendra's breakfast; you know, because of his incapability to take care of himself. The bastard deserves to rot in hell. Being brave and masking the anxiety snaring my cold blood, I marched out of the room, clad in a short, thin white nightgown, and strutted down the hallway, chin held high.

"Catty!"

The moment I stepped into the kitchen, Kendra skipped on over to me, pan shoved toward me; sizzling bacon scorching my face briefly before I stepped away—she just always forgets that I'm a vegetarian. Sitting at the table, Thomas leaned over his plate—several strips of bacon, a stack of pancakes, and scrambled eggs with ketchup splattered across them. Disgusting. How could someone so lanky and bony eat so much?

He was always hungry. I was, too, I had to admit.

"Here," Kendra said, pushing me down on the chair opposite Thomas. He didn't glance at me; I'm a phantom. I thought that was Vanessa's power? Again, I shook my head from side to side. Honestly, I think my brain was unattached, because I swear I could hear tumbling and rolling. Without warning, a heap of food was tossed onto my plate, same as Thomas's. My nostrils flared at the disturbing meat; with my mind in such a fragile state, I imagined the bacon strips reforming, limbs repairing to become the pig it once was.

That's an unsettling picture to conjure up.

"She doesn't eat meat," Thomas objected in his strong voice, glaring shortly at Kendra before redirecting his grey-eyed gaze back to me. "She's just screaming Gay Pride."

"What, because all gay people are vegetarians?" I snapped sarcastically.

He gritted his teeth, momentarily paralyzed with outrage, before swallowing more food. From the corner of my eye, I saw Kendra stare warily at both of us, her bruise-ridden shoulder directed toward me—as though if he made any move to harm me, she would intervene, despite her soured state of body. I winced at the purple smear surrounding her right eye. It was always the right.

Thomas was right-handed.

"I don't want to be any later for school," I mumbled, shivering, as I leapt from the chair and fled into my bedroom. Kendra lingered by the counter, her worried, red-eyed stare following me; chaining itself to my memories. The bedroom smelt of dry and fresh paint, a once nauseous aroma that was now comforting: a sense of security. With my sight less staggered, I could clearly see the paint splatters across the shaggy carpet; blots dotting the side of the wall where the canvas was situated. A smirk carved onto my face.

What a work of art, a masterpiece. Only I could see it.

"Keep it together," I commanded, realizing that my brain was wandering away from reality. After slipping into slim jeans and a loose-fitting, flannel button-up shirt, I was marching out of the house, book bag slung around my shoulder. Kendra and Thomas had still been in the kitchen, their bodies stoic and unmoving, the tension ready to burst. Already the sun peeked, hovering above the earth with scorching tendrils of sunshine cascading onto the people of Los Angeles: Hollywood.

Morgan's party was coming up. I'd heard rumors of a famous DJ all the way from Miami, a "boxing ring" (consisting of water and girls, probably cooked up by her older brother, Jerome), classic beer, strobe lights, and of course, the all magical drugs that would be passed around.

Can't wait.

OOO

I stumbled into period four, a mess, with my flat stomach bare from the lack of buttons actually _buttoned._ The teacher would have sent me to the office for not having a late pass, yet he seemed too stunned that I had actually come. After finding my seat in the back row, all eyes peeled away from my figure and the teacher continued his pointless lesson on similar polygons.

What a drag.

As I reached to pull out my sketchbook, a pair of stunningly piercing eyes caught me. Slowly, I recoiled, book in hand, and met the beautiful gaze belonging to Kyle Ormond. He grinned at me. Cheeks burning, I looked away, eyes darting toward him once more. He continued staring, as if unable to look away. I had to admit—dressed this way—, I was bound to capture male and lesbian attention.

Wait… why did I want lesbian attention?

I never cared before about boys who liked me. Yet _Kyle_? I'd produced a minor crush on him several years back. It had been overridden with powerful urges to gain Chris Fischer's attention just months ago, when sophomore year first began. Kyle, the adventurous dark hero that reminded me of some anguish-ridden, anti-hero from comic books (you know, with the damsel-in-distress that would be _me_). Chris, the sweetheart that just screamed mystery, not to mention his dazzling smile always brought the calmest affect on me.

It was either to dark figure or the sensitive guy.

What to choose.

When I glanced back, Kyle's head was tilted, dark tresses framing his face. His features were hard, sculpted. Chris's cheeks were baby-like, an adorable face (although I've seen his bare torso and there's no "baby-like" features there: more so firm abs). Was it really their appearance I was after? At times, I can be shallow, but never as low as I was being now. I mean, Thomas was once rather handsome—in the _beginning_—but… you know.

"Nice drawings," Kyle suddenly complimented, indicating to the pen-drawn shapes and words—'All you need is love' or 'Fuck America'. He tore the sketchbook away from me, our fingers briefly touching, and I felt the electrifying sensation surge through me, almost unbearable. He seemed unfazed; continuing to flip through the drawings, truly awed.

"These are amazing."

I smiled _modestly_. Yep, when in love, I lose that cool and confident demeanor. It all just melts away, revealing the average, hormone-driven teenager hidden behind the frail mask. Uh, I needed to stop reading Vanessa's depressing stories.

"You should sell some of your art," he said persuasively, "you'd get tons of money."

"I prefer to keep my art."

He shrugged, the same smirk plastered to his gorgeous face. "Whatever."

"My art isn't just _whatever_," I snapped, startlingly angered. You can't just give compliments and then follow with a rude one that obviously contradicts your previous comment. Uh, men can be the most useless, oblivious creatures the world will ever see.

"Calm down." He raised his hands in defense. Eye twitching, I snapped my face away, yanking my sketchbook, too. The teacher remained oblivious to our private conversation. Once in awhile, he'd turn slightly, pushing his glasses up, but would eventually dismiss the low whispering echoing throughout the entire room. Hey, he's a teacher, after all: they hate their miserable lives.

Kyle dug through the pocket of his jeans before pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling furiously across it. I narrowed in my eyes in suspicion when he handed it to me, crumpled and torn. With a start, I realized his phone number was scrawled across the paper. Despite the rising heat under my cheeks, I clenched my fingers around the paper and stuffed it into my shirt's pocket.

His smirk only widened. "No need to show your pride."

He… he was expecting me to call! As if he knew I would. As if… he thought I couldn't _resist_ him! Hissing, I shifted to the side, back facing him, and absently began doodling in the sketchbook, most of the prettily-written words containing a wide range of cusses.

"My pride," I snorted.

Motherfucker…

OOO

The glistening cherry-red mustang halted with a screech in front of my house. Skipping off the porch, I quickly slid into the passenger seat of Vanessa's car and leaned against the cold leather. Vanessa waved briefly at Kendra, who stood on the porch, lit cigarette in hand, before driving off, the cool night wind blowing in through the open windows. Morgan's party was sure to be a blast.

"Nice," I commented, eyeing Vanessa's outfit; a tight-fitting, red tube dress, a thick black belt around her torso, along with red stiletto heels. Compared to my attire, hers was the image of innocence. Vanessa is always the image of innocence. Heaving a sigh, I leaned toward the window, wisps of dark hair flaying about.

"Are you excited?"

"Hell yeah," I responded, smiling at her. Golden tresses fell in shimmering, bouncy curls on her shoulders. She was the _It Girl_; I was simply the sidekick, always trailing in the shadow. A smile spread across my face.

It felt good to be the Robin in this story.

"I have Kyle Ormond's number," I announced, smirking mischievously. "He gave it to me."

Her face seemingly paled into a ghostly white complexion. I had a fanning idea that she felt wary of Kyle; I couldn't blame her. He was notorious for being a player, skimming through girls, always feeling bored them a week or so later. I heard his turn-on was brunettes.

Oh, joy.

I assured her, "I'm not going to do anything. I'm not _that _moronic."

"I hope so," she said, smiling crookedly at me, although continuing to gaze ahead. Her slender fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, the flesh flashing bone white. I chewed on my bottom lip, bemused by her behavior. She cared for me so much. Her desire to protect me from anything—Kyle, Thomas, gossip—was almost insane. It proved her loyalty and friendship, however.

_That,_ I was grateful for.

Vanessa eased into a gated region; the doors opened to allow access for those entering the party. Balloons hovered on each of the gate, tied down, while gleaming tinsel wrapped around the long bars. One inside I stared, mesmerized, at the massive mansions flying by. This housing area was private, guarded, and monitored: cameras scattered across the winding streets leading to the many house.

"I'm guessing that's her house?"

She smirked.

It was the largest of all mansions in the entire area. Because the road slanted as the land heightened, the mansion then resided on top of the raised earth; probably a gorgeous view of Hollywood down below. A semi-circle, enormous, seemed to be the driveway; gates to the mansion opened. I gaped at the number of cars parked already, most of them shiny and expensive.

"I know," Vanessa said. "You should see the inside."

Although it was night, the moon in the sky, a brilliant light shined from the mansion. After parking, we hurriedly slipped out of the car and strutted up the massive driveway, heels clicking on the paved road. The bustle of noise steadily increased until finally, we rushed in through the humongous front doors, mahogany wood. People crowded the circular hallway, all bumping shoulders and laughing. The marble of the floor was shimmering. Two staircases, spiraling downward, resided on either side of the hallway.

"Holy fuzzy balls, Batman," I whispered.

Vanessa giggled.

"Come on." Taking my hand, she guided us through the sea of girls and boys—I recognized many from school. The living room we entered was gigantic, with a wall-sized TV (no joke), and several plush, velvet, crimson-colored sofas scattered about. I spotted Morgan near the glass coffee table, her hands cupping around a ceramic vase filled with a bundle of red roses. Her stance was cautious as she weaved through the crowd, toward a door—presumably a closet—and swiftly placed the vase and roses in safety. Her eyes immediately met us once she whirled back around, closet door slamming shut.

"Vanessa!" she squealed, skipping forward.

I snickered. "I'm not sure the closet is safe—people sometimes make it to _homerun_, if you catch my drift." I nudged Vanessa suggestively. She batted my hand away in order to hook her arms around the freakishly enthusiastic Morgan. Indeed, the rich blonde remained as dazzling as ever; wearing a tight, perfectly white dress, reaching mid-thigh; platinum blonde tresses free and curled to rest on her back.

"You came!" Morgan once again hugged Vanessa.

I frowned, displeased, once spotting Michael; beautiful eyes shrouded with lust. Jesus, does he never gives up. I loathed the way he gazed at Vanessa, as if she was freshly caught salmon amongst a pile of raw ones. Hunger, I suppose. She was a human being who deserved to be treated as one, not some batch of food at _Ralph's _or _Vons_. Finally, he forlornly trudged off, shoulder slouched.

Filthy dog.

"The DJ's amazing," Vanessa commented. I squinted my eyes, seeing the lanky boy dressed in baggy clothing—glowing, neon green necklaces around his neck—leaning over his DJ mixer; large headphones covering his ears. Hands waved in the air, bodies bouncing up and down. This living room was unnecessarily large, especially for it to be able to hold more than fifty kids it seemed.

"Straight from Miami." Morgan smiled smugly. Her eyes peered behind Vanessa, and with a start, the once normal blue coloring of her orbs brightened drastically while she rushed by.

"It's _her._"

"I know."

Serena Killingsworth stood awkwardly near the doorway; sporting a dark violet, tube dress—the fabric obviously velvet and clingy—along with fishnets and black stiletto heels. I had to admit, her legs were perfect, along with her skin, a light tan that glowed. Her hair was now a deep red, curled, and shockingly long, despite the long curls.

"She's not dressed like a Gothic princess," I sniggered.

Vanessa promptly rammed her elbow into my side, hissing, "Be nice."

"Oh, come on," I retorted sourly, turning to face Vanessa, "no need to defend everyone around you. I have opinions that sometimes aren't nice." A smirk flashed across my face. "Serena is freaky, deal with it—"

"Hello," a quiet yet silky voice said.

I blanched, whirling around. Serena stood behind me, Morgan by her side, all smiles. The knowing look in Serena's eyes frightened me—causing my to stagger back as to remain situated beside Vanessa—, and her expression was completely serene.

"This is Vanessa and Catty," Morgan introduced, grinning. "Guys, this is Serena."

Vanessa smiled sweetly, but I continued staring, form alert. All three ignored my complete state of alarm—striking a conversation with Serena, asking random questions. Something, another instinct, slithered inside me. It was the feeling I first had when meeting Vanessa; when seeing Michael. I asked Vanessa if she had felt the same sensation when she met me—when she's around Michael—, yet her answer has always been _no_. Humans were predators… did I possess an extra sense, further heightening the predator inside?

That's a silly idea, although I've always felt something feral concealed within my soul…

Hiding.

"I'll be right back, Vanessa," I informed, having spotted something—_someone_—interesting lingering outside where others also partied, situated around a glass-clear swimming pool. It was Chris Fischer, clad in casual clothing; a black button-up shirt. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his slim jeans. Dirty-blonde wisps of hair billowed softly under the cool breeze. Exiting the house, I eased to his side, a coy smile plastered to my face. Unlike Kyle, it was an easy task to speak with Chris.

"Hello."

Christ turned to me, his lips curling into a simple smile. "Hey, Catty." I wanted to flush red with—not embarrassment—but triumph once his eyes briefly skimmed over my attire, before returning to stare only into my eyes. "Are you having a god time?"

"Are _you_?" I challenged, indicating to the fact that he was previously frowning; not to mention pressed against the wall, hidden amongst the shadows, away from everyone else. "You seem pretty dejected."

He shook his head. "I'm not into parties."

"Oh…"

Across the swimming pool, Kyle stood, two girls giggling naively because of one of his comments. I scowled when his eyes met the closeness between me and Chris—scowled because instead of envy or fury, he… _smiled_. Apparently, Chris wasn't a threat. Bastard. Or perhaps Kyle honestly didn't care so much; didn't concern himself with actually _liking _me. I was nothing but another piece of ass.

Damn it.

I actually _wanted _Kyle to like me—to _fight_ for me.

"Do you want a drink?" Chris asked modestly.

"Sure."

I hooked my arm around his, still gazing at Kyle; wishing for that spark of jealousy. Kyle continued flirting with the two bimbos. Peeved, I allowed Chris to tow be toward a narrow, long table. Plates of beef, chips, and such were laid out. I quietly poured some punch into a plastic cup and took small sips, still pissed with the situation. Quite frankly, I couldn't settle for just one of them.

I needed both Kyle and Chris.

Both needed to love me; needed to crave me.

But mainly the love.


	4. Nothing But Freaks Among Freaks

**IV. Nothing But Freaks Among Freaks**

I stared directly at the teal-colored door, the paint peeling on the corners. B12, read the numbers on the rusted-metal plate. In a slow motion, I gazed to the right, seeing the rows of doors and the blank, indescribable white walls; then, my eyes trailed to the left. More white; more doors, each sheathed with the same teal paint, all chipped. The entire entity of the apartment building smelt of paint fumes—although nothing as ever been repainted—and methane, probably from the gas station across the street. From the distance, a bullet whistled through the air, booming.

Opening the front door, the room smelt like a Hospital—the medicines all assaulting your body, nauseating. I trudged onward, ignoring the depressing state of the tiny, shabby apartment. A single, beaten couch placed in front of a small television, no cable. The carpet still hadn't evolved since the fifties: the same orange and pine-green patterned design that felt shaggy and thick (underneath would probably be paneled-wood).

I halted in my tracks, fully facing the door I dreaded the most; the door that resided at the end of the tiny hallway. Photos of my grandmother, Lucinda, and my mother as a young girl, were placed on the end table diagonal to the door. My older brother remained absent from the photos—not because of awful memories—because he hadn't crossed the border. Instead, he remained behind, with father, in Mexico. It wasn't the luxurious area of Mexico that Americans traveled to on their expensive cruises on the glistening ocean.

This part of Mexico held the sight of a vast desert, a small town ridden with poverty and garbage. I remembered the house we lived in, a far worse shelter than this apartment. Finding enough money for food and trade was almost impossible. It was Lucinda's amazing cooking skills that saved us from starvation… Leaving the country, sneaking across the border (which hadn't been as heavily guarded as now) saved us from an even worse death.

"Jimena," _her _aged and withered voice croaked from the opposite side, "I can see your shadow. Please, come in."

I twisted the doorknob and stepped inside, the darkness stunning. Deep green curtains shrouded the room with shadows, stopping the sun from streaming through the single glass window. Lucinda rested on the bed, grey sheets covering her chilled body. There was only a bed. No other furniture; the boxes stacked in the corner didn't matter.

"I'll make you dinner," I supplied, smiling kindly, not surprised when she saw it through the dark. Her eyes, although lacking in perfect sight, managed to meld with her dark environment over time. Years in the same bed, in the same shady room, helped.

"You're such a sweet child."

The cold from the depression of the room was almost unbearable. "I'll go and make some—"

"I'm surprised you haven't found me a burden yet," she whispered solemnly in her papery thin voice, "I've stripped you of freedom and innocence. You've completely skipped your years as a child and a teenager. I'm old, anyway. I'll die soon. This progressive illness was only to further push me toward the comforting hands of Mother Mary." She smiled at me, tender and frail. "She'll guide me. Don't worry."

"Grandma—"

"Go… go make your dinner—"

"_Our _dinner," I intervened in a hushed voice before quietly shutting the door, concealing her dying form. Minutes later and I was hovering over the stove, preparing to make rice and beans. The chicken was saved for Fridays. It was Sunday; Sunday evening. School tomorrow, that meant. I hated everyone there. They meant nothing, held nothing that could help.

"Damn," I cursed, as the kitchen vanished, and my sight crashed through a chaotic tornado of electrifying colors; a tangled web of tremendous power that overwhelmed me. Slamming into another world, I watched the picture-in-motion scene occurring: Lucinda, toppling off the bed, blood spilling from her mouth as she coughed and hacked. I teetered, swallowing the massive lump of sorrow, and concentrated on the clock on the wall, the numbers blurred. 12… something… Terror splintered through me, ice-cold, as the image tore away, and I was in reverse, spiraling backwards in the tunnel.

With a start, I stood in front of the counter, my power of precognition vanishing; locking itself back inside the depths of my mind. The sorrow engulfed me. My grim fingers trembled. Numbness clutched my knees, forcing them to bend. I collapsed onto the hard tile, overcome, and wound my arms around my stomach. The stench of vomit wavered on my tongue, rumbled deep within my stomach.

"No," I whispered.

Lucinda was the woman—my guardian—that always saved me from everything. Mother died, having overdosed purposely. Father was most probably dead, and living back in Mexico would be the worst. As if my older brother could ever provide what we would need. With Lucinda buried six feet under, I'd be lost, with no where to go, no road to follow. Already, the loneliness took hold.

Because we had barely any money, we wouldn't be able to pay for Lucinda's health: the right medicines needed. Because in this country, you had to pay to survive, your right to live stripped away. In this country, having a baby had its price: you must pay for that baby. You must pay… money… money… We desperately needed it.

I dug into my pockets, pulling out some dimes and five wrinkled dollars.

Damn everyone to hell.

OOO

The mindless ticking of the clock was becoming excruciating, stabbing at my patience. Not even the Algebra II teacher's croaking, cigarette-induced voice could staunch the insufferable noise. Each _tick_ brought upon the vision. And each _tock_, I could see the cruel image of Lucinda, my grandmother, rolling on the floor, clutching her neck; a tear of salty-smelling blood slithering down the wrinkled of her jaw. Tuberculosis, the blood, the coughing.

"You may now have the last five minutes to yourselves. Please, keep the noise level down." The teacher slumped down on her chair, nose pressed into the pages of her raunchy, romantic novel, probably about some sexy highlander or ravishing pirate, both of whom would discover an enthralling, sex-driven babe to fuck now and again, so the novel wouldn't _lag._

By my side, the new girl, Serena Killingsworth, chuckled deeply under her breath. I ignored it. She had previously introduced herself to me, and yet, I pushed her away. I doubted she was different from the inane, moronic students of this high school, each reduced to drugs, alcohol, and, of course, unadulterated stupidity. I've never once tasted the bitterness of alcohol. I've never inhaled the end of a cigarette, or even stroked some illegal pill with my tongue. I didn't under stand addiction, nor did I under how many kids of this generation could be so pathetically stupid.

"Stupid," Serena whispered beside me, scoffing.

I tensed, my eyes cautiously glimpsing her way. She was reading a novel, a frown engraved onto her face. High cheekbones were painted red, either a natural blush or pinkish-crimson, make-up blush. Her emerald eyes stared deeply into her novel, which, as I glanced under briefly, could make out the title of _Pride and Prejudice_. "Stupid" would make sense for that novel, right? The lover's quarrels and drama was what, perhaps, she was finding ridiculous?

_Or are you just trying to convince yourself? _I questioned. I had the capability of seeing into the future. Telepathy wouldn't be as strange compared to mine, right? Nothing out of the—

"The hell?" Serena hissed.

I turned, now truly startled. She gazed at me for several moments, our eyeing strangely tangling to meet some common knowledge—as if there was something we already knew, but at the same time, _didn't_. Her eyes flicked back to the book, fingers digging into the paperback. I, too, looked away, a thick barrier of raven-black tresses covering her image.

_What the hell is happening_?

Several minutes later and the class bustled out of the classroom, speaking boisterously amongst one another. I exited last, messenger bag on my shoulder. A cool breeze caressed my thin cheeks, long ebony strands temporarily blinding me. The second I reached up to brush them away, a hand clamped on my arm, forcing me around a corner. Instinct surged through me, an untamed one buried deep within—suppressed fury and anguish exploding into unnatural strength.

"Bitch," I whispered, grasping the wrist belonging to the person and twisting it around. The person, obviously female, gave a short "_ouch_" before I slammed her torso into the wall, cheek pressed against the cold concrete as my fingers raked through brick-red curls. A dangerous glare sent several onlookers scurrying away, the need to gossip already swirling in their eyes.

"Please let me go."

I pulled away, realizing the voice and person. Serena rolled her shoulder, expression scrunched in pain. Her face was flushed red. I took a simple step backward, my messenger bag thrown onto the ground.

"What the hell do you want?" I demanded.

"I wanted to talk," she responded, eyeing me pointedly. "I didn't expect you to _assault_ me."

"It would have been smarter to just ask—"

"It's about you powers…"

I blinked, dread lacing through my expression. Serena watched me closely, hers tongue smoothing across a cut on her lips. "You were in my mind," I said bluntly, pointing an accusing finger at her, "you read my thoughts. You read my thought about my power."

"It was also that," she whispered, indicating to my arm. I peeked down. Of course: the darkened patch of skin that resembled a crescent moon. The coloring was of purple and blue, a bruise-like image. I stared at her arm, and in the exact spot, she possessed the odd marking of the semi-circle moon. I couldn't help but identify it as the moon—the moon, my greatest strength, the light during the dark.

"Do you think this means anything?" Serena asked, voice heavy with anxiety.

I scowled. "I doubt it can simply be considered coincidence. I can see the future and you can read minds. I mean, I've heard of people with powers like these but—"

"Not on such a high level," she finished. "Not even close to as far as our powers can go."

After a few silent seconds passed, I spoke up, asking quietly, "We can try to figure out this connection. I know a place to go." It surprised me on how I easily I managed to accept everything within seconds. Serena seemed to be a part of me, almost. As if that small area of my soul had been found. And even as we exited the school, an ominous sensation grasped my shoulders and guided me.

It felt like hands from an invisible force.

OOO

We headed down the street, both uncomfortable by the odd situation. Her voice reminded me of wind, soft yet deep—either a calm breeze or a violent storm. Her voice was husky, especially for someone so young. She hadn't even asked where we were going—simply trailing beside me, falling step with me, never once showing concern as to where we were heading. I doubted it could be because of stupidity, seeing as she would have been able to hear any plans of murder or anything from me by now.

"Darma Bookstore," Serena suddenly said. "I know where we're going."

I scowled, not at all enjoying someone rummaging through my thoughts (as weird as that sounded). I'd been in the Darma Bookstore once before, eventually leaving after discovering it to be incredibly freaky (and that is coming from someone who can glance into the future).

We reached the end of the street where it was located amongst abandoned buildings, some having large signs printing FOR SALE. We then entered the small shop. A sweet, misty array of incense and candle-smell overpowered me. The calming sound of water pouring into a fountain came from the corner. Rows of pinewood, white-painted bookshelves formed in front of us. Serena examined the room with appraising eyes. "I bet the owner is using the harmless bookstore-appearance as a ploy to disguise the fact that's there's probably a load of weed and crack in the backroom."

I continued onward, weaving through the shelves; staring at book sections.

"How about here?" Serena gestured to a sign labeled: ASTROLOGY/MAGIC. She fumbled through the books, observing the titles, and I soon did the same, not at all sure what to search for. When I turned back around, I gawked at the stack of books in her arms, almost overwhelming to her slender limbs. She smiled tenderly at me from behind them, before kicking a small stool in front of her and one-by-one, setting them down, explaining their—perhaps—value in our absentminded search.

"Here's one on the moon—here's one on the moon and mythology—here's one on magical powers—here's on special powers—here's one on obtaining powers from the moon—here's _another_ on the moon—and another on 'moon magic', whatever _that_ means."

"… I have five dollars and 65 cents."

"No need to buy them," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "Just flip through them, I suppose."

After handing me one entitled _The Mystical Powers of the Moon_, she leafed carelessly through her own choice; patience never once dwindling. Minutes later, I tossed it aside, finding the information useless and, quite frankly, absurd. Drinking water that has been reflected the moon's image helps you better connect with "Mother Moon"? So, if I saw a puddle created from rain and piss, I should drink from it merely because I can see the image of the moon in it? What a load of crackpot.

"Selene is the Goddess of the Moon," Serena explained, staring at me, book in hand. "She bore fifty daughters under her human lover, Endymion." She cocked her head, contemplative it seemed. "Maybe we're one of her Daughters. I have always felt a deep connection to the moon, and I know you have, too, Jimena. Our scars are also in the shape of a crescent moon."

"That would make us _Goddesses_," I scoffed.

She sighed. "I'm just being bizarre. All of this is magnificent to me."

"Mythology?" I arched an eyebrow.

"No." She sighed once more. "I've always considered myself the biggest of all freaks. I never understood my place in the world. Was it to take care of my family? Then what was the reason for my telepathic powers?" Her shockingly emerald eyes trailed to the books scattered across the turquoise-colored floor. "Perhaps I do have a purpose."

"Stop brooding," I warned. "We need to—"

"Need any help…?"

I jumped back when Catty Turner, one of the—_slutty_—idiots of La Brea High popped up, brown tresses tied into a high ponytail. Her face fell once seeing Serena, who continued skimming through another book, completely unaware of our intruder.

"No thank…"

My words cut short, color draining from my face. Catty remained unresponsive, her eyes cautious and wide: dead set on Serena. However, my eyes were completely glued to her arm, the spot where my scar lied. A black tattoo of the crescent moon was inked onto Catty's arm.

"When did you get that?" I asked shakily, pointing at the tattoo.

Catty broke away from her trance and looked down, a tiny grin playing across her face. "When I was thirteen, I got tired of people constantly staring at this scar on my arm. I mean, it was shaped exactly like this. Weird, huh—?"

"Yes!" I cried, grasping her arm and jerking her forward. "I have one, too."

"That's weird." She waved her hand dismissively, a tinge of confusion in her eyes triggered toward my somewhat panicked frenzy. Once Serena caught her eyes, she whirled back around and ambled away. I shifted on my feet, sharing a knowing look with Serena.

_She doesn't see it as out of the ordinary… _

I swayed, taken off guard by the telepathic message, but easily continued, "Does she have a—"

"Looking now."

I stared at her for the vast amount of moments that flew by. Her eyes were shut, creases on her forehead, and there seemed to be a tremendous proportion of concentration being exerted onto Catty's mind. I bit my bottom lip in nervousness once seeing the paling of her complexion, the slight trembling of her arms and legs. The agonizing minutes finally surpassed; her eyes opening to reveal shimmering jade orbs.

"She has the power of… time traveling." I gaped. "It was a difficult task because I needed to search through memories and past thoughts, but even after finding the right one… I became tangled in her mind. It…"

Serena fell to her knees, palm covering her forehead. I kneeled down, snaked my arm around her waist, and easily towed her to her feet. Her flesh felt extremely ice-cold. "You rest," I instructed as she leaned against the bookshelf, breathing shallow, "I'll go speak with Catty."

OOO

I pushed through the beads leading into the backroom. Catty, who had been leaving over the stove in the miniature kitchen, stumbled back, bewildered by my sudden appearance. She smiled kindly at me, smoothed her hands down her low-cut jeans, and stalked forward. "Do you need any help?"

"I wanted to ask a question."

Her expression fell slightly. "Okay…"

"That scar that you used to have. I have one, too. Serena does also. And…" I couldn't just say _I know about your power_. She seemed the type of person to overreact and throw things when in a panicked fit. I didn't want a steaming pot of boiling water heaved at my face.

"It's probably just a coincidence."

"Do you feel connected to the moon?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, but… that's not uncommon."

"… Do you have any… _special_ talents?"

Catty crossed her arms and shifted on her feet, scowling furiously. "Okay, what's going on…?" She paused hesitantly. "What do you mean about special talents? Like… being able to draw very well?" she supplied. I narrowed my eyes, detecting her tone of voice: a mockery of dumbness. She was playing dumb and innocent, the little liar.

"I know about your power."

"What… power… I don't…" Again with the playing dumb.

"I have one, too." I motioned with my head outside of the backroom. "Serena has a power. And we all have these odd markings—"

"Serena!" Catty shrieked, backing away and cowering against the counter. "I knew it, I knew it…! I knew that _freak_"—she spat the term—"had some weird powers. She's probably a witch, isn't she? She probably cast a spell on me or—"

"Freak?" I snorted. "She can read minds, _that's _all. That's not as freaky as your ability to travel back and forth in time!"

She gasped. "Read minds…? Wait, how do you—?"

"I knew you'd be an overreacting _bitch_," I snarled, hoping the insult would sting enough for her to concentrate on something _other _than the word "freak". Indeed it did. She gritted her teeth and marched forward (backing away in the process once realizing my 5 feet, 9 inches). Still, she maintained her determined stance and clenched fists.

Drama queen.

"I can't help but wig out because all of this! I've just learned now that there are four teenagers in this world, in the same _city_, that have unbelievable powers and we just _happen _to have the same markings on our arms… And one of them has been going through my mind—"

"Four?" I intervened, perplexed.

She heaved a long sigh, saying, "My friend, Vanessa Cleveland, has powers, too."

"_Vanessa?_" I blanched.

"You know what," Catty interrupted, clasping one of my hands and glancing around, "let's just have this conversation elsewhere—not in the back of a bookstore. All this incense and shit is giving me a headache. Not at my house, though—we can go to the park."

"In public?"

"You think anyone's going to report us to the FBI or the Bureau-Of-Teenage-Freaks?" She rolled her eyes. "Be reasonable."

I sighed.

She's weird…

OOO

**AN: **I've always hated how the girls whisper all the time when talking about Followers or the Atrox. What do they expect is going to happen? Someone's going to arrest them for being crazy (I mean, I would think their crazy if I heard what they were saying). Anyway, no amulets. The markings are a bit more interesting (to me at least).


	5. Those Are Thorns Around Her Heart

**V. Those Are Thorns Around Her Heart**

It's obvious why she brought them to the park on such a _lovely _evening; what with the sunny rays pouring onto the grass and the birds singing their little tones that reminded Jimena of some Disney movie. It was in public, with many onlookers to see just in case she or Serena did anything to harm Catty, who sat on the bench, warily eyeing them beside her (particularly Serena).

"So… what to talk about then?"

"Our powers, our situation, what to do—"

"Do nothing," Catty said shortly, the thread of a smile stretching on her face (although it appeared tight due to her obvious discomfort). "Maybe there are others in the world, and it's just a mutation at birth or something? It doesn't matter. It's not like we're here to save the world or anything like that!" A breeze whistled by, blowing the leaves about. Catty pulled the hood of her sequin-encrusted hood over her head, sunshiny brown locks hanging in front of her dull eyes. Jimena couldn't help but see the darkness in her face as… sinister. It seemed naturally embedded to her, a thick aura of evil that not even Catty herself noticed.

Serena coughed, interrupting her thoughts. "Or perhaps we are meant for something great."

"I prefer staying on the sidelines."

"And I prefer seeking out a reason for these powers," Serena replied coolly, not at all as snappish or cheeky as someone's tone normally was. She was continuously calm and casual, unaffected by almost everything. It reminded Jimena of a stoner; all droopy eyelids, twitchy smiles, and that tinge of clumsiness always laced through each word.

They were each freaks, and it had nothing to do with their individual powers.

A smile tugged at Catty's lips. "I _am _adopted. Wonder if my parents dropped me off in some orphanage after discovering that I had these weird powers. No mother or father wants a weirdo, freaky child, after all."

"Awful parents, I suppose," Serena responded, "who care little for their child."

Catty leaned forward and plucked a brown-stained leaf off the ground. After examining it for several seconds—her expression that of a dreamy daze—, she crunched it between her fingers and slumped against the bench. A hint of sorrow plagued her face momentarily before she said, quite breezily, "Serena, if you can read minds"—that same tone of fright—"why not look into my past, look through all those memories?"

The telepath hesitated, absently rubbing a finger along each cuticle. "I'm not sure that would be an intelligent move. Even going days back and I could be lost in your thoughts. I could go into a coma state, maybe—"

"No, then."

She shook her head pitifully.

"Whatever." Luxuriously stretching her arms, hands reaching for the sun, Catty slid to her feet and stared down at them. A shadow cast across her face from the hood. "I'm leaving. I'll tell Vanessa about this brief conversation. See you at school." Flicking her head to face the other way, she stalked off, hands in her pockets, a gloomy figure with hunched shoulders, bright green leggings, a ripped jean-skirt, and a cherry red jacket raised to reveal a pale stomach swollen with a single bruise. Only Serena noticed; Jimena merely glared toward the ground, frustrated with the lack of concern from the time-traveling teenager.

"She's a freak."

Serena cocked an eyebrow.

"And a whore…"

"Jimena!" Serena scorned, teeth piercing through the flesh of her bottom lip as she contained the outburst. Something troubled her, Jimena could tell. Once emerald orbs were dulled with pain, and an expression hinting to ambiguous thoughts crossed her face. That tone, it sliced through Jimena… It was the tone belonging on to a mother; a shrill voice of scolding that was only reserved for mothers, a parent of true affection and lovingness for her child.

_Amelia_, had been her name, Jimena recalled through a tangled mess of memories. A woman of Puerto Rican descent and coppery-colored skin flushed a slight, bruise-like purple created from a mixture of smuggled cocaine and prescription medicines needed ever day to keep the AIDS and HIV at bay. Amelia had been the reason for their real poverty. That medicine cost thousands a month. You needed to pay to stay alive in this country… pay a lot so those filthy bastards in the government could bath themselves in the Benjamin's earned.

Rich motherfuckers.

Amelia was long gone, having run off with some 20-year-old boy loaded with some cash, probably for being some drug-dealer. Lucinda's health deteriorated greatly after that impulsive event. Jimena had barely hit the age of ten.

"I'm sorry."

Serena's smooth voice shattered these thoughts.

"Don't be."

"I have to be."

Jimena rubbed her temples, unable to comprehend this girl.

OOO

Serena slouched as she trudged through the thin curtain of rain. She barely looked up, too preoccupied trying to ignore the shadows dancing around each corner of the abandoned buildings. Instead, she stared at the addresses, sometimes glimpsing down at the battered paper in hand. It wasn't difficult to find the building—what with the few cars around it, and several kids standing outside, cigarette smoke curling into the air. All other buildings were vacant, a ghost of a house, rats probably scurrying around for the bits of food littered across the ground.

_The Dungeon_, Zahi had called it. He had invited her, saying she'd find him inside. The smokers gazed savagely at her, their eyes dark. She ignored them and quietly entered through the open door. A narrow hallway led far down to the other side. The vague trace of music reached her ears. Smiling timidly, Serena stalked down the dusty hall, warmed by the candles on the tables, wax melting to the floor. She kicked an apple core out of the way and watched as it tumbled to the feet of a couple locked in a ferocious embrace of sloppy kisses and tangled limbs.

"Here we go," she whispered once reaching a door. Opening it, her fingers trembling with anticipation, she observed that it was only a smaller hallway, short in distance. Smoke seethed near the end. Some girls grinded against each other inside the mist, decked out in total black, garish makeup, and chains. She glanced down at her own attire: torn jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt. If she would have gone with her normal clothes, she might have fit in perfectly. Whatever. She just continued forward.

Serena blanched once reaching the smoggy end.

"Find him in _here_?"

The entire area wasn't too lengthy, but the thick mist, the changing lights, and the sea of boys and girls crowded beside one another—all crammed together—would make it a seemingly impossible task to spot Zahi anywhere. And of course, each person wore what he usually did: thick black attire. The corners of the room appeared dangerous, the shadows whipping around as if possessing a life of their own.

_Oh, great…_

Her eyes landed on the blonde girl she had bumped into the other day—along with the others. Yvonne: that was her name. Yvonne, whose platinum-blonde hair shimmered under the lights, smirked up at the handsome boy from before, Stanton, who in turn remained apathetic. Even from afar, Serena could very clearly study, although warily, the deep aqua-blue of his irises, an endless blue sky that seemed almost entrancing to the point of mindlessness. Shaking her head, she stalked the other way, bumping against dancers.

"There you are."

The almost lyrical voice murmured into her ear, a sweet and unspoken promise of love, desire, and loyalty that nearly made her jump out of her skin. Warm hands greeted her hips in a magnetic motion, two souls joined together. These thoughts near frightened her. Yet, as the hands roamed her sides and ruffled her shirt—hands obviously belonging to Zahi—, she couldn't push them away, and after years of never receiving the affection she'd craved for… well, she didn't want to push _any_ of it away.

Never.

Zahi swiveled her around to face him, lustrous eyes chaining her to him. "I was hoping you'd come to me tonight." Serena leaned into him, the phantom hands of lust lacing through her nerves and mind and commanding her. She wasn't herself, that was palpable, but again, the need for physical contact wasn't ever going away.

"Not meeting your expectations?"

"What?"

He smirked, the notion delicious. "The club, I mean."

"I wasn't sure what to expect with a title like the Dungeon," she admitted, briefly examining the dark corners of the room. A burly man stood in front of a massive wooden door—one that should belong in medieval times—, grimacing furiously. She imagined a gloomy hallway, dripping water, broken pipes, cells with rusted bars, and cobblestone ground, the true image of a_ dungeon_, before the previous thoughts over Zahi tugged at her mind; shattering these pictures. She gazed back up at him, eyelids fluttering.

"Perhaps a Dungeon?" he teased, yet his voice held an unexpected edge.

"Perhaps…" She smiled sweetly, completely entranced.

Zahi's smirk widened.

OOO

Hours seemed to pass for Serena. She and Zahi had danced closely to each other, spoke quietly to one another about superficial conversation, and all other ridiculous things such as quick side-glances and pathetic smiles of awkwardness; at least on her part. Zahi appeared completely engulfed by confidence the entire evening. It was when she contemplating leaving, exhausted, when he asked, "I'm going to visit the bar for a moment. Want anything?"

"No, thank you."

Zahi briefly caressed her hand, his fingers now cold, before sauntering away. Serena pressed against the wall, breathing uneven with wavering apprehension and thrill. A cool hand rested on her shoulder, jerking her away from her thoughts over Zahi, and with a start, she stumbled back, bumping into a man reduced to an intoxicated state, breath reeking of alcohol.

"So terribly sorry…"

A slender female situated herself in front of Serena, hands digging into the pockets of her baggy jacket. The hood of it was pulled over her head, disguising the face, yet several white-blonde hairs tumbled out from it. The makings of some bird's head, a darker shade than the jacket, appeared at the tip of the hood. It seemed familiar, but before Serena could observe it more closely, the girl yanked at her arm.

"I have something to show you."

Serena clicked her tongue ring nervously. "Um, well… I have to—"

The girl stared upward, face still cloaked by shadow, yet the luminescent, glowing blue orbs appeared. Serena's heart nearly stopped. She took a staggering step backward, but the hand caught her wrist and tugged her dangerously close. Those blue eyes seemed to have hands, for she felt captured; fingers digging into her skin and forcing to gaze into them endlessly. Something deep within her core simply vanished, and a numbing ache, like some sort of virus, swelled all throughout her body, commanding her to its will.

"Your future is ahead."

"My future?" Serena responded robotically, uncomprehending.

"Your destiny. The Fates have already begun spinning it." Those slender, grimy fingers clasped her upper arm and forced the fabric of the sleeve up, revealing the half-crescent mark etched into the pale coppery skin. A feral hunger and viciousness passed by, a thick aura that consumed Serena in its wide arms of welcome. The girl swept a finger across the mark, and to Serena's astonishment, it began burning, the bottom of it suddenly vanishing. The emptiness inside her stabbed at her, the once previous human emotions dwindling dangerously low to nothing.

Serena's eyes fluttered as a heavy darkness crossed her vision. A small ghost of a snicker echoed in her head.

"Serena!"

A deep female voice pierced her ears. The human emotions and her vision snapped back together with a start, the hollow ache that worked as a virus fading. Serena watched, slightly awestruck, as the hooded girl whirled around and sprinted away, disappearing into the crowd. Jimena, lips strewn into an infuriated scowl, gripped her arm and towed her through the crowd.

"_Goddess_," someone hissed, and just like that, insults were flying everywhere, hands snatching at Serena. Jimena clutched the young, dazed telepath to her chest, seemingly protective beyond reason, and jerked through the dancers. Some stared, questioning as to what was happening, while others—the ones with the darkness in their eyes—spat out insults and curses, one even swiping at Jimena with a fist, who ducked down easily.

"_Filthy wretch!_"

"_Moon-marked demon!_"

"_Why don't you just go back to Selene?!_"

"_Stupid bitch!_"

All of it disappeared once they were sprinting out of the building, the smokers laughing boisterously after them. Serena was roughly shoved into an old, battered car, before Jimena slipped into the other side, stabbing the key into the ignition. Rumbling to life, the car shook as it went over large rocks and broken items of the abandoned road. Serena's head throbbed painfully. Her arms and legs trembled with exhaust and fright, threatening to overtake her. Grasping the seat, she hoped she wouldn't collapse.

"I had a premonition," Jimena explained rapidly, eyes darting everyone as she stared ahead; fingers clenching the steering wheel tightly as the swerved onto an actually populated street. "I knew where you were because I've been to that club before. It's_ peligroso_, Serena. They're all just a bunch of psychopaths."

"I think I've realized that now," Serena mumbled, wondering if the muddled words were coherent.

"Who was that girl?"

"Who were _all _of those people? I mean, they were terrifying… but the girl, she was… the worst."

Jimena gritted her teeth. "What happened?"

"She did something to me. I felt like all my emotions were gone, like I'd never be happy ever again. Just staring into her eyes was terrible enough." Serena sighed, worn out, wanting nothing more than hide away under the covers of her bed. "But there is something I'm certain of, especially after the way she made the crescent mark on my arm disappear slightly"—Jimena gasped involuntarily—"and it's that…"

"What?"

Serena gazed out the window, whispering, "She wasn't a human being… not anymore, at least."

OOO

Vanessa slammed the locker shut. Anger boiled under her skin; face hot with an intense jealousy. Several lockers down, Catty remained pinned against the wall, Kyle's hand resting above her head as he leaned down, each word seemingly dazzling her as they flirted and sniggered over tedious topics. Catty pursued her lips, puckering them—lips a deep shade of red. Now and again, an attractive pink blush would crawl under her cheeks.

"Stupid…"

Vanessa leaned against the locker, observing the brunette beauty and handsome boy. They were nothing more than fuck-buddies. Yet, the term seemed odd. Catty always came off as whorishly bold and smiled flirtatiously. She wouldn't allow her virginity to slip away… right? The idea of that heartbreaking boy tangled together with Catty under damp sheets repulsed Vanessa. Catty deserved more. Catty needed someone better.

And Vanessa needed to show her that.

"Hey, Vanessa."

She didn't need to look. Michael, it was always Michael. Yet she looked for his benefit. He smelt of icy mint, a sweet fragrance the peppered the air around him. Damp black locks framed his hard-featured face, disheveled. She would admit his handsomeness. Yet, at the moment as a light bulb flickered to life in her head, she cared little for his undeniable attractiveness, but more for his unrestrained obsession for her.

_It's a good idea_, she reassured herself, and rushed to devise her words just as Catty strolled forward, Kyle's arm draped around her shoulder in a bold manner that, seemingly, _pleased_ the brunette. Masking her contempt for the heartthrob—both of them, Kyle and Michael—, Vanessa plastered a sugary smile on her face that _would _launch a thousand ships; not _could_.

Her beauty was a fact.

"So, would you like to hang out Friday night?"

Michael's entire complexion paled to an almost yellowy-coloring. He gaped for several seconds. From the corner of her eyes, Vanessa spotted the astonishment that formed on Catty's face, twisting her expression into an open-mouthed and wide-eyed stare. Another emotion—_betrayal_, maybe?—flicked across the brunette's brown eyes, but Vanessa only wanted to cause as much pain as possible for the suffering she had been forced to endure the past week and at the moment.

"Y-Yeah… I'd l-love to."

She yanked his hand, pressing against her, and scrawled her number on his palm with a pen found in her pocket. "Call me," she murmured, leaning forward as to let her luxurious words caress his ear, light as a feather. _See, I can flirt, too, slut_, her mind added as an even more pronounced amount of bemusement formed on Catty's face.

"I will," Michael promised, staggered, as he stalked away, probably lost in his daydreams of their future marriage. Stupid moron.

"We should double date."

Vanessa smirked at Kyle. He didn't even know how much that statement helped her plan; her cliché, yet effective plan of making Catty jealous beyond reasoning. Vanessa knew that Catty loved her.

Catty just had to figure it out herself.

OOO

**AN: **I'd say Vanessa's a real bitch. But hey, she's a Daughter of Pandora, right? Sorry for the long wait. When I was fixing my computer, I lost my writing files for a long while and found it a few days ago. All good now. :)


	6. In The Hall Of The Mountain King

**VI. In The Hall Of The Mountain King **

Vanessa was never one to intrude in the lover affairs and brief flings Catty indulged herself in, yet with this particular man—Kyle Ormond, the heartthrob bound to tear her heart out—, Vanessa was going to make an exception. Although, she already managed to hit a snag in the road with the oh-so-brilliant plan she developed: Catty was giving her the silent treatment.

So they're back to middle school, again, eh?

"… Come on, answer the phone, Catty," Vanessa coaxed into the phone, stamping her foot on the ground when the phone beeped, ending the message. She furiously slammed the phone down and slumped down on the queen-sized bed, overcome by the sheer pressure throbbing in her chest, an empty void that clawed at her stomach and heart relentlessly. _You're heading into dangerous waters_, seemed to be a great way to describe her situation. In affectively altering Catty's view of Kyle (by enforcing jealousy into her heart, thus Michael being the key), Vanessa may lose her best friend, her love, before the climax of the plan—where Catty drops Kyle and announces her love for the blonde—can fully occur.

"I need to speak with you, Vanessa," her mother's dry, throaty voice commanded from behind the door.

Groaning, Vanessa stormed to the door and threw it open. In front of her, Eleanor stood, hip cocked and arms crossed; brown tresses disheveled and face solid, unmoving, emotionless: probably because of all the botox injections; the plastic surgery. Face it, mother: You can't fight against time, nor can you win a battle against age, which, in turn, _is _time; time clasping hold of your body and throwing it to the sharks.

"I have some important matters to discuss concerning you _academically_," she spoke levelly, brown orbs dull and listless, "and we'll be conversing about it during dinner—at six. It's extremely essential, especially to your discipline, and I find you'll learn to tolerate this decision… you'll have to." Smiling briefly with false affection, Eleanor quietly shut the door on Vanessa's face. The blonde continued gazing at the white-painted wood, uncomprehending of "learn". Will she completely despise this mega-super-important choice at first? Was it so awful and insufferable? A terrible thought slammed into her.

Eleanor was sending her to boot camp! Yes, boot camp, where she'd be forced to run through icy, muddy puddles and sleep amongst a giant group of terrifying people in the cold, stone area of a massive tent-like shelter. Her heart turned to frost, melting away and forming an even greater ache in her chest. Her arms wound around her lower body, containing the vomit building in her stomach. Heat pressed against the back of her tongue, the working of a meal she ate hours ago slowly ready to be released.

The phone rang, and too engulfed in sorrow, Vanessa leapt for it, knowing the high chance of it being Catty. "Hello!"

"_See, I've called you back, now what—_"

"My bitch of a mother is sending me away!"

The voice on the other end paused, a dramatic affect of brief bemusement. All that could be heard was the light breathing of Catty before she responded, saying heavily with a tinge of uncertainty, "_What? Are you sure? What did she say to you?"_

"Well, she only hinted that some major change in my school-life was about to happen, but I—"

"_So you're just panicking?_" Catty demanded, exhaling a gruff sigh. "_You scared me for a second!_"

"I'm panicking because it sounds like something she would do! Can you use your power and see what's going to happen?"

"… _Okay. I'll call soon. Just wait!_"

The line ended. Vanessa's allowed the phone to slip from her hand, and all she could do was stare blankly at the wall in front. A wide painting of Marilyn Monroe smirked down at her. Marilyn Monroe, in all her blonde glory, never had to suffer through all of this! Of course, her family _was _mentally ill, she had a fling with the president—and his brother—, and _eventually_ overdosed! But… she never went to boot camp! Only foster homes!

She pressed her palm against her chest, heart pulsing underneath the bone-armor. The ache of waiting trimmed down her confidence. Sweat beaded her forehead. On the first floor, the tedious ticking of the antique grandfather clock echoed mockingly. She tapped her thigh, scratched her palms, squeezed her cuticles, and rubbed the back of her neck where the hairs had dampened by sweat and terror; all mind-numbing little habits that proved her anxiety was commanding her nerve system. Eleanor held no place of love for her, that was clear, but Vanessa never imagined that deep-set imitation of motherly care would actually vanish! She always thought Eleanor would keep up the charade till Vanessa finally moved out.

Apparently, that little self-restraint dwindled too low for Eleanor, and she snapped at the child "responsible for Jack's (Eleanor once husband) untimely death. If you hadn't been born, he might have had more time to stay at home and away from his life-threatening job!" Yes, Vanessa always did enjoy listening as her mother accused her of her own father's death; the father who cherished her and would envelop her in his strong arms.

The phone rang shrilly, and Vanessa leapt forward, pressing it against her ear. "Catty!"

"_She's sending you away!_" Catty shrieked shrilly into the phone, infuriated and grief-stricken. "_I went in time to your dinner time because I knew that's where she always gives the bad news, and I heard her tell you where she'd be taking you! And it doesn't even make sense, especially because you're Christian! But it's way worse than boot camp!_"

Vanessa gripped the phone tightly, breathing unevenly. "Where exactly am I going…?"

Catty gasped, as to breathe evenly without having to choke on air, before responding with a sharp cry.

"_A Catholic School in Beverly Hills!_"

"… We're not even Catholic!"

"_That's what I said!_"

Yes, indeed, a prestigious—probably co-ed, seeing as Eleanor always wanted her to marry (you know, so she'd be out of the house)—Catholic school was a thousand times worse than boot camp.

At least people in boot camp were sane.

O

Serena and Jimena, arms hooked together, strolled carelessly down the swarming breezeway of La Brea High. Sunshine poured through the holes in the clouds, a soft harmony engulfing the student body. Spring Break was nearing, but more importantly, the Spring Dance—a time to elect the princess or prince (a tradition neither Serena nor Jimena had ever encountered). Apparently, spring was a time for the princess and prince, while the nearing of the end of a school year—something far more important and exciting—was meant for the "Final Prom", where queen and king could be announced.

Several pink and blue flyers stamped all over printed out a list of required fields—all through not mandatory, it may bring you more notice—needed for one to be considered a possible candidate to be elected Prom Princess or Prince; among this list: sports and/or extracurricular club, band/orchestra, class office. Jimena already established herself as an astounding, stragitcal soccer star and Serena, a phenomanal, lovely cellist.

"I'd imagine Morgan Page would be using all her time for this?" Serena questioned.

Jimena smiled crookedly. "Actually, no. She's not in any club, she's not in the class counsel. She just comes to school." She leaned in closer, as if to block out any eavesdroppers. "Her life is hell at home, I know it."

Serena shrugged nonchalantly. "I never pick up any negative thoughts."

"Never?"

"Actually, I've never been in her mind." Her emerald orbs glowed with self-doubt. "I haven't gone into Vanessa's mind either. I'm always so afraid, that's why I only pick up traveling thoughts—I rarely push myself into using my power. The consequence could prove deadly."

Jimena nudged her with her elbow. "Are you just being melodramatic?"

"Hmm…" Serena's thoughts already wandered. On the flyer, printed in gigantic letters: _MASQUERADE BALL_. "Things have just gotten interesting."

"A Masquerade Ball?" Jimena forced Serena forward, for they had halted in front of the flyer now. "Don't tell me you're seriously considering going to something so _stupid_!" She stiffled joyous laughter bubbling in her throat. Serena ignored it and sighed dreamily, as if imagining the gown she would be wrapped in and the mask she could hide over her face—feathers, silk, satin, jewels. It would all be lavished down upon her, the queen of the court. These ambitious thoughts and pictures shattered under Jimena's perplexed stare.

"Daydreaming…?"

Serena smiled mysteriously, feeling as if she was floating. "We're all daydreaming… Every minute, every second, every hour, every day, every year, we're just dreamers floating on by, wishing for the time to slow down but it never will. With time stopped, we'd have the hours needed to achieve what we all want… I'd be crowned, a golden septor in hand, almighty, Queen, Her Majesty, of the Dark Moon—"

She clasped her hands over her mouth, silencing the speech, eyes widening in shock. Jimena continued staring, eyebrow cocked and eyes penetrating. For that split moment, Serena couldn't understand what had happened, but only that her words had not belonged to her. Dark spirit hands had eneveloped her and guided her, and inside her mind, they painted an image of pure bliss: the collision of dark and light, the burning of stars, the moon in her glory, and the sun in his brilliance, all just melded together in an endless silvery-golden field that not even Elysium could compete with.

And above all, Serena stood, violet gown sweeping across the floor, presenting the darkness below her, while her silvery-white bodice glimmered under her face, her smirking face of wisdom and dark desires. And among her audience of dark and light, a fellow man, blonde and handsome, yet face cast by shadows, kneeled before her and offered the best of all: a feather, red, orange, and yellow, burning with sheer power that was almost unbearable to hold within her grasp. A phoenix feather, in her hand, in her presence, and disaster struck with her fiery malice.

The man fell back, consumed by a vast plume of black that had swallowed all. Her silvery bodice was torn, revealing the cleavage. She was too paralyzed to take any notice. The moon and the sun, once holding hands, departed, exploding into nothing and leaving nothing but the horrid masterpiece painting of a lonely nightsky, abandoned by moon and sun, nothing but a bleak universe shattered by evil.

And as Serena stood before this realm, her eyes darted down to the Phoenix feather, and with a start, she realized that all is her fault. The sweeping gown tormented the people below it with shadows. She was frozen, seeing the feather sliced up her arm, burning something into her arm: Wings, vast and far, blossomed, and Serena smiled, seeing the Phoenix wings, coaxing her to to spread them and use her power to promote misery.

"Serena!"

_Extend __your wings and cast down all who oppose. _

"SERENA!"

She slumped back against something solid, startled and consumed by numbness. Jimena stood before her, concerned; uncomprehending. Jimena must have seen something through her power, for she grasped the telepath's hand, and ignoring the onlookers, sprinted toward an empty corridor of the massive high school.

O

Their eyes connected only once. The shiny polished dinner table gleamed under the diamon-chandelier that sent bright prims of light shooting in every direction of the room; a room that smelt of candle-fire and a heavy-scented perfume that masked the glorious supper. Vanessa stabbed at her meat, also spooning mashed potatoes into her mouth with an increased vigornous that astonished the usually uncocerned Eleanor.

"I have some news for you," Eleanor announced, clearing her throat. Vanessa noted that she was the only woman that has ever possessed an Adam's apple, yet that inner insult faded almost quickly under the penetrating gaze. Instead, Vanessa opted for bitter sarcasm.

"I bet you do."

Eleanor continued oblviously, "I'm sending you to Saint Margarets Catholic School"—yep, always one to be remorselessly blunt—"and you've already been added to their school workings. I find that this choice was purely for discipline and—"

"Discipline?" Vanessa barked, somber; throat swelling in grief and horror. "No, _mother_, this is your sick demented mind creating ways to torture me. You want me to become this little robot who succumbs to your every demand and plea. Yes, mom, I'll go buy you more of that grape-flavored wine. Yes, mom, more liquor at the drug store? Okay, I'll go out and buy it. Oh, and some cigarettes, too? Oh, you have a fake ID for me, already made—"

"Enough."

The cold, heartless command sewed Vanessa's lips shut. Hurt, emotional, and frail, Vanessa leapt up from the chair and stormed out of the room, her feet stomping angrily all the ways up the steps. Even after slamming the bedroom door shut and falling onto the warm, thick bed sheets, the need for solace beated against her heart, tempting her. It was a new kind of _need_ stirred to life within her.

Cattyemotional need…

In that moment, paralyzed by these dark desires, Vanessa realized _where _she needed to plunge herself into to receive the need her soul lusted after; a need that consisted of purely physical contact and electrying skin-on-skin movement.

And, of course, with Catty expelled from that category, there was only one person left in mind; someone who would entwine well with the heartless plot against Catty.

Vanessa, _needing_ to perish—and as awkward as it sounded, that _was_ the right word—under the lust-filled intent that clouded her mind, concenrated, and not soon enough, her molecules detached, spreading into the air like a misty fog; she, in turn, nothing more than a phantom gliding through the air. Sumbitting to these pulsing thoughts, Vanessa even managed to shove away the concernt that momentarily slipped into her heart at the numbing sight before when she passed the dinning room:

Her mother, Eleanor, face buried into her palms and reckless yet silent sobs tearing from her throat as she quivered under the—seemingly—relentless sorrow digging under her flesh and piercing her heart.

But, selfishly and denying her own affection, Vanessa traveled through the night, a spirit, in search of the final person she could find comfort in and actually emotionally harm Catty at the same time—Catty, who would never love her in the way she wanted; would always carry a part of Vanessa; would always shatter Vanessa every single day. Vanessa needed to hurt Catty for this, and she knew the exact person.

Chris Fischer, the boy that Catty wouldn't admit to, but did, care for; immensely so.

He _would _be persuaded.

O

In the next few weeks, Catty noticed the sudden shift in Chris's attention; the deep-set, dazzling eyes always ripping away from her whenever he spotted her; the beautiful grin vanishing under her gaze. She watched as Serena, always one for quietness, transformed into a ghost floating through the days, her once bright emerald pools completely flooded with a thin veil of hollowness. Jimena was constantly at her side, sometimes grasping the telepath by the shoulders and steering in her into a private area of the school.

But worst, Vanessa, who Catty saw after school—for the blonde had transferred to the Catholic school—, seemed incredibly guilty over some event that haunted her mind everyday it appeared. The smile she gave Catty upon meeting her _anywhere _was completely false, a fabricated lie that laced through Catty's soul and forced her heart to halt its beating for several seconds of anxiety.

Her life, everyone around, was slipping through her fingers like running water, cold and frosty against her skin. Kyle, who had noticed her distance days ago, exited her life instantly; his attention averting to the sexy newcomer to the school, Jasmine Vasquez, a "hot" Latino girl. In basic terms, Kyle no longer cared for her existence, Serena and Jimena were too lost in their own dilemma to notice anyone around them, Chris only sent her one saddened glimpse a day, and Vanessa… something happened, something terribly heartbreaking, and it concerned Catty somehow.

Catty was going to play Nancy Drew.

Catty was going to uncover the truth behind everyone's problems…

…Wait? Wouldn't that seem more Dr. Phil-ish?

Anyway, she was going to unravel everyone's mysteries.

O

"I-I c-can't take it anymore m-more," Serena stuttered through the sorrow fogging her mind. Jimena rubbed her back comfortingly, even having lit several incense-sticks in Serena's bedroom to help cloud the thick aura of grief. A silvery tray carrying two porcelain mugs containing a honey-colored liquid resided at the foot of the bed; a small treat Collin brought up for his "adorable sister and very-welcomed guest."

Jimena rubbed her temples. "Tell me, exactly, again, what has been happening in these dreams? All I know is that they're destroying you physically." She noted the bluish-circles sagging under the telepath's eyes, the sickly gaunt cheeks, and the sour yellowing of her complexion. Either some vile disease was raging against her body, or the evil described in her dreams greatly took a toll on her body.

"Well, it's always some sort of evil version of me, and I basically destroying the world with… shadows. But at first, I was just a queen and nothing more, but this blonde man hands me some feather—and for some reason, I _know _it's a phoenix feather. Then, everything is just _destroyed_, and I'm happy about it—happy that the feather managed to give me the power to destroy in seconds.

"But… they've changed… the _dreams_ have changed." A tiny smile of hope tugged at Serena's lips. "This _beautiful_, blonde woman just comes out of nowhere completely clothed in white and just… the moon appears and all the shadows are gone. Everything is normal and happy and… the woman did it all just by stepping up to me and grabbing my hands like a mother or guardian angel."

Serena, shivering, sent Jimena a small smile. "She told me, '_This is not who you are or who you were meant to be. You were meant to be a savior, not a destroyer. Come back to me and your sisters. Bring the light. I am waiting._'"

"That's deep," Jimena commented dryly.

"But I think this woman's real."

"It's a dream," Jimena argued, clasping Serena's chilled hands in her own grim ones. "Dreams are just _unimaginable _and _insane_ parts of your mind coming to life. And sometimes, emotional stress can physically harm someone. You haven't been eating that much lately, you barely sleep out of fear of these dreams, and you don't talk that much anymore. No offense, but you act like a crack-addict when you're walking—always staring over your shoulder like someone's going to jump out and abduct you."

"Because I feel something watching me from every corner of the earth!" Serena cried dramatically, recoiling from the Mexican girl with fresh agitation. And such an emotion worried Jimena, for the telepath _never _let loose her stronger, more passionate emotions such as irritation, hatred, fury, and anxiety; they greatly affected her powers. She explained her emotions controlling her telepathy like "pouring water onto a plugged in radio."

Jimena squeezed Serena's hands. "Maybe you just need more sleep, food, and—"

"Why are you denying _everything_!" she snapped, her vision temporarily clouded by blinded tears and outrage. "I'm trying to tell you—no, _convince _you that something evil is following me, and it has to do with my powers. And if it stalking me for my powers then it'll be stalking you, too, Jimena, and that's what I'm trying to warn you about!"

Jimena flinched away from the harsh cries being thrown at her, but for one fleeting moment, she felt… convinced; convinced that evil was brewing on the horizon and their powers were the main source. She was convinced because Serena no longer acted herself anymore. In fact, Serena acted like a woman possessed by a demon sent from Hades—the hollowed, trenchant jade orbs; the thinning frame, as though she something sinister was caving down on her; the hatred for light, because it was apparently "easier to see in the dark".

She knew that inside Serena, a "malfunction" had occurred, as though some invisible force had managed to capture her soul and corrupt the point of madness, which is the direction the telepath was heading toward. Jimena needed to save her.

"I'm going to get help," Jimena said in a light voice.

Serena gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes. "From who, Jimena, from _who_? Enlighten me."

"I need Catty and Vanessa."

"What the hell are those idiots going to do?"

"I don't know!" Jimena retorted, voice clipping and crackling like a whip. "I just _feel _it in my heart that they can help. They're the only others with powers, and I need to see if they can help… somehow." Grasping Serena's hands once more, she slid off the bed and darted to the door, calling over her shoulder in a commanding tone, "I'll be over soon. I promise!"

_I swear to God, I promise…_

O

Vanessa rubbed viciously at her arms and legs with the soapy rag, unable to stand the disgusting feel clinging to her skin. Steam curled into the air from the smoldering hot temperature the water was set at as it poured down onto her body. Showers were almost hourly after those weeks back. She was a slut, a _whore_, and nothing would change that now. She was losing her mind.

A darkness lingered in her demented mind. In the years they've been together, Vanessa has never wanted to harm Catty. Well, sometimes, but those were normal, teasing thoughts, like whenever Catty stole the last cookie in the jar. But the innocent thoughts had vanished, replaced by completely evil and vile ones. Being with Michael—as she's been doing for awhile to help cool down—didn't help, for his constant jolly mood contrasted deeply with her stormy and moody attitude.

Shutting off the water and slipping her arms through a silk robe, the fabric clinging to her body, Vanessa strolled over the Victorian-styled sofa in corner of her room and flopping down, not caring of the plush cotton soaking under her. Her fingers trembled. The silk against her moist skin didn't help to cool the burning of her flesh; the areas where…

What was happening to her? She not only completely plotted against her own best friend over childish matters that Catty knew nothing of, but she also managed to transform into something purely new. A whore—a conniving, clever little slut with issues over keeping her emotions in check. And now, that night with Chris Fischer—the roaming hands, the absolutely physical attraction, the lack of morals—would forever haunt her mind.

But, another part of her argued, it did help shove something Catty deeply cared for out of her life—two things, in fact!

… And that evil inside Vanessa laughed.

**AN: **Oh, my, Catty and Jimena are the only sane ones. A shocker on Catty's part.


	7. I Do Believe In Fairies

**AU: **Sorry for the long wait. I lose motivation pretty quickly :P The title of this chapter is any illusion to hope (you would have to have seen one of my favorite movies, _Peter Pan_—2003—to understand. I love that scene so much).

* * *

**VII. I Do Believe In Fairies**

"_All day and night,  
__My desire for you  
__Unwinds like a poisonous snake._"

—"Love," Samar Sen

Vanessa chewed on her bottom lip, smearing her cherry red lipstick. This Catholic School Girl shit bugged her, and being in this dreary classroom, surrounded by studious, dull boys and girls. Her jumper dress, a dull grey spun of wool and cotton, rode up, and only her black stockings protected against exposure of creamy flesh. The sleeves of her black undershirt were rolled up to her elbows. The penniless school seemed to seldom ventilate air and chill, for the compacted room was airless and compressing.

Like the good little student she was, she plucked her pink Blackberry Pearl from her Louis Vuitton handbag, and dialed her fingers across the little letters, slender fingers working rapidly. The girl beside Vanessa scoffed at this little rule breaking moment.

**Catty**

**How r u in freedom? b/c its HELL here. Text me back, ASAP!  
**

**XOXOXO**

She stuffed it back into the handbag. Just then, the bell rang, awakening the minds of all. As the students scurried out of the classroom, Vanessa at the end, Mother Agnes said smoothly, "Next time, Ms. Cleveland, I'll take it away." Her aging eyes never met the bemused blonde's.

Vanessa's insides curled nauseatingly. Her throat constricted as she quickly nodded, bitterly mumbled, "Sorry," and headed out, some students who heard simpering under their breaths. They were a group of girls known as the "Aqua's"; named after the band that created the song "Barbie Girl". These girls were each blonde-haired, with typical bright blue eyes, flat ironed blonde hair, a fashionable uniform just like Vanessa's—although their clothes were splashed with some pinks, blues, and lime greens—, and they ruled the school.

She remembered when it was she, Vanessa Cleveland, who strutted through hallways with an air of brilliance. But Saint Margaret's High School was dominated by the Aqua's: Yvonne Flores, Kelly Hamilton, and Ashley Cooper. Yvonne was renowned for her tall stature, voluptuous figure, and flawless skin, while the other two were merely clones—less beautiful, less celebrated, less popular, but still high on the "High School Food Chain".

And as Vanessa wandered down the halls, she realized how Yvonne made her skin crawl—in fact, all three made her shiver. The air surrounding all three girls was nothing more than a chill—a frost of fear and intimidation that went beyond normal leadership (meaning, sometimes you feared the more popular girls and guys, but not on this level). Yvonne, with her menacing smirk and sharp azure eyes, always possessed that aura, far more than Kelly and Ashley, stupid clones of this evil, vile, poison-tongued woman.

"Having fun, Ms. Cleveland?"

Vanessa halted, eyes narrowed, as the three notorious girls stopped to stand before her, each in a pompous pose and wearing smug smiles. Yvonne arms were crossed, come hither lips puckered into a small, mischief pout.

"Not very much," she responded levelly.

Kelly cocked her head. "Why are you here anyway? Did the goody-girl do something bad?"

"No."

"It was your mother," Yvonne stated, eyes unblinking. Vanessa found her mouth drying, color draining from her face.

"How do you know?"

Yvonne arched an eyebrow. "I'm a mind-reader."

Vanessa might have sputtered a laugh, but the severely serious expression on the woman's face caught the laugh in her throat. Licking her lips, Vanessa took a step backward, distress lacing through her blood. Several onlookers edged closer, sensing the unusual tension netted into the air; wanting desperately to comprehend why the Aqua's were confronting the new girl.

"W-Well… and I can go invisible!" she snapped without thinking, wishing to be mocking.

Yvonne shared a brief knowing glance with the two behind her. Vanessa, chewing on her bottom lip, whipped around and stormed the other way, the onlookers dispersing with dissatisfied frowns. Yvonne's laughter pierced the hallway, and just as Vanessa turned the corner, she looked back, caught in the eyes of the blonde whose smirk remained intact and just as dangerous.

-

The heavy aroma of weed peppered the air. Catty, having adapted to the stench, wandered into the backroom of the Darma Bookstore, locking the door behind her. Thomas, slumped in a chair, leered at Kendra as she hovered over a boiling pot of Raman noodles. Disgusted, Catty ignored his presence—and the massive bong on the table—and quickly hugged her mother.

"Hey, mom."

"Catty!" The older woman beamed with delight. "Want some noodles?"

Although her stomach quenched at the hunger bubbling up, she shook her head, not wanting to see as her mother was forced to cook even more. "Not a lot of costumers today," she observed casually, leaning against the counter.

Thomas snorted. "Ha! There's never anyone in this piece of shit store."

"That's not true," Catty argued with an angered grimace.

"A bookstore is crappy enough, but a bookstore with books about fucking aliens and magic?" He shook his head, teeth clenched in revulsion. Kendra continued stirring the stiff noodles, yet her lips curved down, and her eyes tightened.

"People do read…"

Thomas glared at her. "People with nothing important to do."

"Like getting high off a huge ass bong is important?!"

Thomas, after breathing heavily, simply closed his eyes and slouched even more. Kendra turned slightly, eyeing Catty disapprovingly, before saying evenly, "Catty, go behind the counter and wait for some costumers. The bell hasn't rung in the past hours but can you?"

Her heart melted. Kendra always chose Thomas. Perhaps it was fear, but the rejection always soured Catty's mood and stabbed at her confidence. Flipping back her brown tresses, Catty snapped a severe, "Fine," before storming out of the backroom. Thomas snickered behind her. In the bookstore with the few shelves and incense masking the smell of weed, it was completely vacant. Outside in the beautiful sunshiny day, people strolled by with bright grins and a preppy stride.

She hovered behind the counter for what seemed like hours. Only several curious teenagers and some crazed old lady wandered inside, but the rest of the smoldering hot day was nothing. She would have rather gone to school than stand behind a counter, tapping the surface and shifting on her feet. But just as the sky shimmered with brilliant oranges and purples and yellows did she decide to leave. Kendra and Thomas had probably passed out in the backroom.

Before she could actually muster a sigh, someone new briskly entered the store—someone certainly unexpected.

"Catty?" Morgan Page inquired, the grip on her purse tightening as her lips curved into a smile. Her blonde tendrils were glittering and pinned back by a row of butterfly clips; grayish-white jeans pressed against her perfect legs, and a slinky black halter glistened with little sequins. Catty gaped, unable to comprehend how someone could be so flawless… and then she frowned, wondering where such a thought occurred.

Morgan stood in front of the counter, still grinning. "I knew your mother owned this place, but you work for her?"

Catty nodded warily. A slight faltering edge had been detected in the blonde's voice. She was nervous, perhaps; cautious of being seen by a fellow student in this "lowly, pathetic, washed-up garbage dump of a bookstore," as she'd heard someone kindly remark?

"Why are you here? Do you need anything special?"

Morgan blushed. "Um, well… It's kind of weird, but do you… do you have any books on the moon?"

"Uh, yeah over—"

"Probably the sign labeled ASTROLOGY or PLANETS?" Morgan teasingly said, slapping a hand to her forehead before strutting off toward those sections. As she skimmed through, Catty waited, an eyebrow arched. Morgan was an odd person, a statement that meant something when thought by Catty, of all people on this planet. And this oddness, perhaps, is what made Catty's skin crawl with unease.

Morgan flounced back, head cocked sweetly. "I think I'm done here. I would buy something, but my cash card's been limited, you know?" With a sugary smile, she waved once before strutting out of the store, that same air of brilliance emanating from her—the same instinct of fear and alertness raging inside Catty till Morgan was out of sight.

"What is wrong with me?" she questioned aloud, bemused.

"You're gay. That's number one," Thomas stated while trudging by, face grim.

Catty rolled her eyes.

-

Blue orbs trained on the woman sensually swaying her hips. His eyelids were barely open. The woman—Yvonne—, an enthralling creature, smirked enticingly at him. He merely craned his neck as to stare off, boredom lacing through his blood. Yvonne, probably pouting at the moment, never quit; never terminated her conquest—the game in which she chased after him, wishing desperately to share a bed with him.

Cassandra, one of his Initiates, hissed, face jade with pure envy. "What a slut."

Her infatuation with him never dimmed, yet she found someone to help ease away the frustrating, passionate lust that warmed her blood upon spotting him. She'd chosen to spend her nights, alone, with Tymmie—another Initiate, just the same as Karyl—in one of the many bedrooms of the elaborately-fashioned and expensive loft in Hollywood. The sheets of his queen-sized bed were always ruffled in the morning. Tymmie—just the same as any ambitious Follower—was a younger Stanton, unaware of the torture that is an eternally existence.

"Stanton," Cassandra whined, tugging at his arm. "Do you want to dance?"

He, Stanton, arched an eyebrow at her, to which she frowned and turned to Tymmie. He, too, taunted her; baiting her as he gawked at some dark-haired Asian girl on the dance floor. While Cassandra and Tymmie drowned themselves in a glaring contest, Stanton sauntered off to the bar, breathing evenly, all the while attempting to ignore the bustle of noise.

"Don't you just love—?"

"No," he interrupted, disregarding the girl's attempt at flirting.

She huffed. "Fine."

He slumped down on a stool, shoulders slouched. His chest, again, seemed more hollow than usual. Most—common humans, that is—would argue how depression was a terrible, awful thing, and that the emptiness was not okay. Then again, most humans haven't survived for more than three-hundred years, facing an eternity of atrocious acts, lonely escapades, and of course… boredom.

In the beginning, after entering the Cold Fire, he'd been renowned—from his various victims to his lines and lines of women. He would stride into a party with a beautiful woman or two, perhaps strolling out with a new victim. But decades past, and after awhile, the whole charade of being him simply dispersed… and he continued existence without real meaning. An occasional woman, sometimes a victim passed by, but became forgotten in his mind.

"Look who's here," Karyl commented as he perched down on a stool.

Stanton followed his gaze. In the distance, one of the Daughters—a girl named Serena, judging by the thoughts he'd encountered days ago when he'd seen her—, stood off to the side of the dance floor. Her shoulders were hunched, hands in her pockets, and she seemed… drained. Even from afar he could decipher the exhausted expression on her face.

"Fresh meat," Karyl sneered, anticipation in his voice. "What a moron."

"She doesn't know what is yet or who we are," Stanton countered smoothly, "and I think she wants trouble."

"I think a Follower's got her already," Karyl agreed, his expression pressed into predatory hunger. "That makes it all the more easy for us to take her down. Do you think Zahi and his little workers got to her? I bet it was—"

"Even if it was Zahi or _her_ or any of his others talented followers, we won't allow them to claim this Daughter. They managed to plant a fraction of the Atrox into her mind, but we'll finish the rest. I can't allow Zahi to win a place of power above me." Resolute, Stanton eased off the stool and lithely sauntered toward the Goddess, fluidly sweeping into her mind. An expanse of blank space consumed a portion of her soul, her inner voice, for one of Zahi's subordinates managed to have entangle her thoughts with those of the Atrox.

Her emerald irises discovered him, and she pressed against the wall, observing him the entire way, intrigued, till finally, he stood before her, his bold mannerisms not at all baffling her—in truth, her unblinking, level gaze bewildered _him_.

"You're one of them," she automatically commented coolly. "I'm not in the mood to have the emotions ripped from me." Shifting around, she stared off, scanning the crowd. Damn. She was still chained to Zahi.

"I suppose you're not as naïve as I thought."

"I suppose you're not as intelligent as you though, Mr. Hotshot." Her voice—the tone in which she spoke, so melodic and smooth—was not scathing or clipping; it was not meant to be insulting or mocking, but a statement of fact… _opinion_. That same tranquility veiled her orbs, and a slighted smile crept on her face, one he mirrored, for finding such a fascinating creature was rare in this dreary, predictable world.

She noticed the smile, and cocked an eyebrow. "You're smiling. Of all the times I've seen you, you've had that same frown."

"I'm immortal," he stated simply.

She shrugged. "That sucks."

"Yes… yes it does."

"I mean, an eternity of nothing but… doing the same thing over and over and over—"

"—yes, I understand—"

"—I mean you're probably very miserable. You hate life, I can guess."

"I find use for it sometimes, such as now."

Perplexity settled on her brow. "I'm not useful at the moment—just broken. I'm looking for this guy, Zahi, who can probably fix it… hopefully."

"He's the one who caused it," Stanton announced mockingly, and upon seeing the curiosity on her face—she believed him!—, he added, "Zahi is just the same as me, an Immortal looking to destroy people like you."

"Am I some being related to the Moon?"

He laced his fingers through his tresses, uncomprehending as to her unconcerned nature. Had she not heard him say _destroy_? Did his statement merely bounce off her mind? Pondering this, he explained, edging closer to her, "You're a Daughter of the Moon, a Goddess, and I'm one of the Followers of the evil force, the Atrox, sent to destroy you and your fellow Goddesses."

"Hmm…" She inched away, and slowly, began to stride off, shoulders slumped down. He caught her elbow, halting her movement, and she slowly turned around, gazing at him with nothing but captivation. "Wait… You're starting your whole destroy-me-thing _right now_? I thought you were just giving me a warning." He felt the sensation of her mind melding into his, unaware of his telepathy, and he forcefully pushed her out, though a lingering, pleasant ache extended in his body. Since when did telepathic connection feel so… _euphoric_?

"I thought I was unique," she mumbled, rubbing her forehead.

His grasp on her arm tightened, an odd current of electricity striking his skin. "This is becoming tiresome," he stated darkly, slipping into her mind. Her eyes widened, and he discovered flashes of memories of the Follower who'd assaulted her once before—the pain associated with this attack. He frowned at how her complexion paled against the lights streaming across her face. The spark in his grip burned his veins.

"You are unique, for this is generation." His hold loosened, and she yanked her arm back, eyeing him reproachfully. "I haven't found such an… _odd_ telepathic Daughter in centuries."

"So… how I can stop these nightmares?"

"Why should I help you?" His eyebrows rose.

"You like me," she responded casually.

His eyes flattened. What was her problem? "I _like_ you…? Are you out of your mind?"

"At the moment."

"That's it." Stanton clasped her arms again, and glared into her orbs, searching through her thoughts, steadily willing her powers to weaken. The presence of the Atrox became profound once more; she clenched her eyes shut, and his hands grasped the back of her neck, forcing her closer. Slowly, her eyelids lifted, and he blanched, his telepathic abilities waning. Her irises were soft, a tender green—not a hazy cloud, as expected. A deep innocence, threaded with a perpetual sorrow glittered inside her eyes, and he paused to stare, so unbecoming, even for a Daughter.

He allowed that _other_ presence within him to command his nerves; that distinctly luminous and wonderful spirit that he'd never once felt (at least in centuries). This foreign zealous persona grasped hold of him; he recalled a period of time when he was a boastful, fervent character, searching for the entertainment of life. Such passions had diminished decades ago, but now, in the wake of this abnormal, beautiful Goddess, it reawakened, captaining his movement.

His fingers trembled as he stroked her cheeks, radiating a vibrant pink. Her skin was cold and damp. She blinked up at him, head cocked to the side. He smirked at the interest that ignited on her face, in her soul—a naturally inquisitive creature, searching for truth. He could tell her motto would be "Everything happens for a reason," and he would know, through this brief encounter, that she was out looking for that reason.

She needed to feel purposeful, useful to the world; she wanted to comprehend why her existence contributed to life, not just her own, but everyone's revolving around her. And he found, with startling delight, that he figured she served a purpose to _him_.

Life wasn't as boring at the moment.

"The reason you're here is to save the world," he offered to her, and she smiled kindly, although as he smoothed back the rogue tresses cloaking her sight, he couldn't help _it_. He was just as appalling as Romeo, just as pitiable in the character's "love" for Juliet. But Stanton understood—he never once could figure out the abrupt love between Romeo and Juliet—the love between the two… well, he didn't, but he felt it.

Yes, he felt it enough to capture her mouth in a tender kiss, so entrancing that it burned his soul to the core. Serena, she was enchanted, frozen right there, her arms limp at her side; eyelids sealed shut. Yet, as a young girl, she recuperated from this state of paralysis, and leaned against him, her palms moving up his chest; the world seemed to come to a standstill, the dancers a blur. Storming emotions tumbled into his body and that icy void no longer corrupted him. He parted her lips with his tongue; he felt her anxiety, and she leaned back slightly, bewildered by the turbulent sensations erupting inside of her.

She was _scared_, though enjoying their intimacy. Her hands formed a barrier between them, and she pushed away from him, that fright barely hidden behind layers of desire and yearning—pining for _more_.

"I'm sorry," she whispered before whipping around and leaving the club. He stared after her, disgusted by the longing boiling in his blood. His heart gave an unsteady rhythm, thudding against the inside of his chest.

What the hell just happened to him?

-

**AU: **Serena and Stanton pulled a Romeo and Juliet! It's funny. I already see flaws in their relationship—a lot. I may like the couple, but in this story, I'm not going to be nice to _any_ character. It's my thing. ;) **Spoiler**: Something tragic about to occur next chapter. Oh, Catty…


End file.
